If you know your Pommy geography, you'll know that Bexhill is only a hop, skip and a jump from Hastings. So we dutifully attended the Tabernacle three times a week.

There was pressure for us to become members. I stalled, because Eileen wouldn't consider herself a Christian. She felt that, well, something ought to happen. Something had to be real.

I knew that was silly, but generously didn't say so.

Then, one Sunday evening we played hookey from the Tabernacle and drove out in our 1935 Morris 8 (those days they weren't veterans, just bombs) to a little chapel in Hadlow, near Tonbridge. Eileen's older sister Shirley and husband John lived close and we went together. It was a cozy, relaxed time. God has all sorts of ways for catching His kids off guard.

Eileen was caught off guard.

The sermon? Predictable enough, about sheep and goats that we knew backwards from Sunday School days.

Except that this time, God was doing the teaching. Personally, to Eileen. Giving her a revelation of forgiveness.

Afterwards, she tried to explain it to us.

"I knew," she said, happily "quite suddenly. Just - knew. That when Jesus died, he died for me. There's no question now. None whatever."

Shirley and John understood. They were delighted. I was glad it solved the problem of Eileen's not taking communion, but I felt excluded from her experience. Nice for her; meaningless for me.

We drove home thoughtfully, Eileen's head on my shoulder. Suddenly she sat bolt upright and gripped my arm.

"I must be baptised," she stated.

I made vague agreeing noises.

"Right away," she added.

"But you're pregnant," At seven months the remark was an obvious one.

"It doesn't matter. Or rather it does. What if something happened to me when the baby's born?"

My reaction was to snap back and tell her not to be morbid, but the expression on her face in the glow from the dashboard was anything but morbid.

"Right away, then," I agreed.

My father and the elders took a bit more persuading. Pregnancy produced a look the other way, giggle and tut-tut attitude. Baptismal gowns tended to cling when wet and people would see. Eileen patiently pointed out that people had been able to see for several months.

And, a few weeks later, she was baptised. And took her first communion. And we became members of the Independent Calvinist Baptist Tabernacle.

One month after, in November 1959, number one son was born.

In all, we stayed in that orchard a little over two and a half years, until the caravan became rather cramped for the three of us. The story of our first attempts to sell it, and the visit from a couple of unearthly Men in Black is told in "Beyond Murphy's Law". Sell it we did, however, and the price of $850 was exactly the 10% deposit we needed for our first house.

We hadn't wanted a new house. We hadn't wanted to live in a neat suburban subdivision. But English building societies play safe. New and neat it had to be.

Once again we moved.

Once again Eileen conceived. If that'd been the start of a trend, we'd have our own football team by now. Plus a few reserves.

Thirteen months we stayed in our neat new house. Thirteen months of door-to-door salesmen, coffee mornings with the ladies, I-spy-who's-got-new-furniture, and all the other trivia of suburban existence. All part of the system. Some folk live for it.

One pay-day evening we sat down to do our monthly bill- paying. Eileen opened the statement from the Hastings and Thanet Building Society.

"The payments are high enough," commented Eileen. "Yet we haven't reduced the amount we owe them by much."

"That's because of the interest," I explained knowledgeably. "The man told me that we're pretty much only paying off interest in the early years."

"How much of this house have we paid for in thirteen months," Eileen demanded.

Pocket calculators hadn't been invented. I did sums on scraps of paper.

"Excluding deposit? Ok: we've bought the front wall: eleven inches of cavity brick, a door and some windows."

Eileen was frowning.

"Now, if our mortgage is for 25 years - how much are we going to pay out in principal and interest. Compared with the price of the house?

More scribblings. I came up with an answer. Didn't like it and started again.

Again the same answer. "We pay double."

Eileen hit the metaphorical (and unpaid for) roof.

"You mean this house costs us twice the builder's price? That's daylight robbery!"

"It's the system," I said reasonably. "Everybody has to."

"Everybody may do it. That doesn't mean they have to. Why should we go along with the system? There's got to be a better way."

Now, that was in the balmy, carefree days when interest rates hovered around 5%. As we write this bit, 25% is normal. How many times over do you pay the price of a house in the life of the mortgage now. If we'd incentive to buck the system then, what about folks today?

We debated over what to do. Number two son was two months old. There was no possibility of Eileen taking even a part-time job. We needed a vehicle. Our dear old Morris 8 had given up, and although I puttered to work on an unreliable scooter, it wasn't awfully practical for the four of us.

Inspiration struck.

"What if we sold this house? Prices have gone up since it was built. We'd get more than we gave." "And found some old place somewhere. Where the owner will give us a private mortgage." "If the place is run-down we could do it up. That'd save us pounds."

If. It was an awful lot to ask. But out of the blue we'd hit on a sure-fire technique for getting a house at half price.

Let's put it in simple terms. Most folk are content to grumble. Work all the hours there are. Only a few are willing to get up off their butt and make things happen. The next few paragraphs are for them.

Get a house. Both of you - work like crazy to scrape up the deposit. If it must be a new house, okay. But try for an old one. Ideally a tatty one in a good area.

Do it up. Paint. Wallpaper. Build a shed or a garage. What - you can't? Look: I first arrived in Scotland with a physical condition that meant I had to be carried everywhere. couldn't walk or feed myself. Or speak a word of the language. It's called babyhood. But you should see me now.

There are evening classes. Friends who'll teach you a bit of how-to in return for some muscle in their projects.

And when you've increased the value of your home, move on. To somewhere worse. On less of a mortgage.

Worse. Swim against the stream.

The mistake is to upgrade. Move down-market instead. That way, smaller mortgage. More experience.

There's an added bonus. Learn all you can about building, pretty soon you'll realise there isn't much to building a house. Ok, foundations need care. Roofs are fiddly. Framing is quick 'n' easy, though.

And that's the quarter-price house.

How come? Get clear of mortgages, you buy for half price. Only the price-tag of the house; no extra for interest.

But build your own, and you save labour costs. They represent half the price tag.

Which, if you get the reasoning, gives you a home, any size, any style, a quarter the price other jokers pay for theirs.

And that's calculated on oldfashioned low interest rates and ignoring trade discounts and buying windows and doors and things secondhand. You wouldn't believe us if we said just how cheap a good quality home can be. But it beats working for it.

And that's anarchy. Or better. The system is designed by them, for them. Look at the ads on TV: happy young couples shaking hands with the moneylenders as they sign up on their first home.

Don't play it their way. God has some fascinating shortcuts. And although some folk say it's wrong to own a bach and a boat and all the Kiwi musthaveits - I dunno. That's for you to ask Him. But we will get all dogmatic and say it's totally wrong to have these goodies and spend all the hours there are to pay for 'em. Never being able to stop off at the drop of a hat and have fun.

Like - we knew folk in England who lived in flash houses in the country. Never saw them in daylight except Sundays and holidays. Too busy commuting to the Big Smoke and back.

Currently you get thirty acres of pasture and a half-round haybarn for less than the price of a house in town. And thirty acres brings in an income just from grazing. More if you buy bobby calves. Haybarns are comfortable with a bit of insulation.

But now we're really digressing.

Just avoid the system.

Where were we? Oh yes, owning eleven-inches-worth of a near new house.

Eileen doesn't let grass grow under her feet. (Stand her on your lawn, folks, and never mow again.) Next day, with me at the office, she organised estate agents. Viewers trailed through our home.

I was busy drinking tea at work a few days later when the phone rang.

"Arthur Vint and Son." Didn't mean much. I said so. "We're selling your house, sir," the voice said, reprovingly. Light dawned. "In fact, we've sold it. A couple we showed it to have agreed to buy it at your price. How soon can you move out?"

Good question. For the price we'd been asking, I'd move out the next day. But steady on; be realistic.

"Tt is short notice, sir. We've taken the liberty of leaving details of another property with your wife."

The property was old and cheap, in the country, and the owner was happy to give a mortgage. A car-owning aunt of Eileen's turned up, so we had transport.

We sallied forth.

The property was called "Tangletrees". Romantic name, but the half-acre garden was precisely that. And on a damp November morning every bare branch and every dying clump of nettles dripped wetly

The building was a four-hundred-year-old granary. Originally part of a monastery set high on Fairlight's lovely gorse-covered Firehills. The Brits like gorse, bless 'em. Admittedly it's pretty when it flowers.

Someone had converted the upstairs of the granary into a fairly liveable house. The downstairs was all flagstones, and oak beams from ships wrecked along the coast.

Eileen and I were enchanted. What cared we if we had a couple of brats, three years and four months, the house needed skilled and sympathetic hands to convert it into a gracious country home, and it was a family joke that I had been evicted from a carpentry class at high school for complete and utter incompetence.

The owner, an elderly farmer who lived nearby, showed us around. He made no attempt to glamorize the place.

"Road isn't maintained by Council. Just rough, that. Gets impassable in winter."

Eileen's aunt had regarded it as impassable already. Her car had been firmly left on the tarseal at the top of the hill.

"An' if you folks are thinking of making the downstairs into living accommodation, now, you've a mighty lot of work ahead of you. For one thing, it's below ground level."

On and on he went. Honest soul, trying to be realistic. We didn't care. We loved it.

And as we walked back to the car, we were lost in our own private dreams. Later, Eileen's aunt told us that she had lectured us all the long road up the hill on the follies of inflicting a damp stone building on two tender infants, the madness of taking on a full-scale conversion when we couldn't even change washers on taps, and the imbecility of leaving the comfort and convenience of a new estate house in town for the perils of the countryside.

"And you two daft beggars didn't listen to a single word," she reminded us. "Just kept on about how lovely it was and how you couldn't wait to get started."

By pushing our solicitors (you have to; don't be awed by the fact that they're omniscient) we were the proud owners of "Tangletrees" in under a month.

Our private mortgage with the old owner was small. I picked up a Morris 1000 van which had once belonged to the Post Office. We actually had money to spare.

And Britain's worst winter since the ice age ended, began.

Two-metre snowdrifts. Driving to work over the paddocks with Eileen bouncing on the van's back bumper for traction. Thawing pipes in the loft with hairdryer and hotties. Keeping an electric fire going beside number two son's cot all night and watching ice form on his mittens. Queuing in the snow at the gasworks to buy bags of coke.

Reading every do-it-yourself magazine we could lay hands on. Because we knew nothing. Like - absolutely nothing.

And, came the spring, and the ground began to thaw a little, we started to make the old granary into a country home.

How d'you put French doors in a two-foot thick stone wall? I knew no better than to attack with a sledgehammer. Warning shouts from Eileen advised me that ornaments were leaping from the shelves. And I moderated my onslaught to a gentle walloping with club hammer and cold chisel.

Drains bunged solid. We relaid and re-relaid them until the unmentionable flowed uninhibitedly off into the unimaginable. We demolished the outside staircase, forming in its place a concrete and wrought iron balcony (Eileen still bewails the loss of her poker, taken as reinforcing). An inside staircase was constructed of treads hung on threaded pipes 'twixt rafters and floor - we had to wrestle with taps and dies and complex mathematics.

Mostly, we did it wrong. New plumbing - including central heating - leaked like a sprinkler system; mitres weren't; dovetails didn't; tiles lifted; wallpaper bubbled.

But we'd start again, working every spare moment, sometimes until two or three in the morning. Always learning, always doing it more cheaply than any tradesman.

And God helped us along, sometimes in almost unethical ways. Take sinus trouble frinstance...

Smoking is summat I dislike. Tried it once. Burned my nose with the match. Gave up. That was at the ripe old age of twelve with a woodbine.

I dislike it; it dislikes me. Put me in a roomful of puffers, my breathing apparatus protests. And the main activity of civil servants, in my department at least, was curtailing their life with nicotine.

I fell ill. Great galloping agonies from blocked sinuses. All very distressing. All checked out by several medical gentlemen, GPs and specialists. I was sent home for weeks on end. Time and time again.

The hilarious thing was that I was right as ninepence at home. Fit as a flea. Just relapsed once I stuck my head in the office.

So apart from a monthly trip to hand in a new medical certificate and collect my paycheck, I enjoyed lengthy working holidays at the government's expense.

God mayn't have been ethical, but the house was finished in record time. Anarchy's fun, but He functions beyond even that.

Finally the old granary was completely renovated. All our friends advised us to sit back for a while - like several years - and enjoy the olde Englishe surroundings we'd created. We had other ideas.

It was time for change. Big change.

Right from the day I'd entered the Civil Service, I'd hated it. The work had no scope for originality. The people I worked with were bored, frustrated. It was disheartening to look at an overworked superior and calculate how long until his next breakdown. Or to hold a farewell presentation for someone retiring at 65, and then collect for his wreath a few months later.

Eileen and I had been working into the early hours together for nigh on three years. We wanted to spend all our time together, not just meet after employment had claimed most of our attention.

We also wanted a change from the Tabernacle. Even in the best families, it's far from a good idea to have your father as your minister. We'd had problems in our marriage, but had kept them to ourselves for sheer lack of anyone truly independent to turn to. Also we had tired of a continual diet of Calvinism. There was a lot of good in it, but we felt like a change.

And lastly we fancied a move away from that corner of England.

We put the old granary up for sale.

It sold. For three-and-a-half times the price we'd paid for it. (And - just for the record, and to show what good taste we had - Don Estelle, star of "It Ain't 'Alf 'Ot, Ma" latterly bought it and is currently trying to sell it for - gulp - the equivalent of a quarter of a million dollars...).

I sat down and started writing.

First, a letter to the Civil Service Commissioners, telling them what to do with their job.

Second, a letter to the Tabernacle, thanking them for the fellowship we had enjoyed and saying that now we felt led to other corners of the vineyard.

It's a great feeling to have no visible means of support.

It's refreshing to walk away from the pattern of chapel routine that has dominated your life for years.

We loaded our suitcases, our two boys and ourselves into the van and bumped up the hill towards the main road.

"Go west, young man" is the cliché.

We went west. Followed at a discrete distance by a Pickford's pantechnicon with our furniture.

* * *

PART TWO: GREENER GRASS, ITCHY FEET

We're still not sure if it's a virtue or not - but we've always had the ability to make up our minds quickly.

Maybe if we'd had a well-tuned crystal ball we'd have gone somewhere else. But that would have meant missing a whole heap of excitement in the meantime.

So we drove into Devon... saw a gaol for sale... and bought it... just like that.

The story of the ghost that nearly sent us packing, and our first exorcism, is told in "Beyond Murphy's Law". Sufficient to add in passing that a complete list of all the nasty events that led up to our dealing with the thing would fill a full-length book. All of which just serve to underline the fact that the supernatural isn't some abstract concept, but an area that some folk urgently need to know how to handle.

Anyhow - the exorcism worked. And we settled down to enjoy life in the south-west of England.

We discovered home meetings.

Admittedly, these were somewhat sophisticated, intellectual little gatherings. People said rather clever things; prayers were a sentence or two, on a theme, in strict turn around the group. Yet compared with the tightly controlled midweek-prayer-and-Bible-study regime we'd been used to, they were a breath of fresh air.

And we discovered fundraising.

One Sunday we were startled from our usual calm by a photographer systematically snapping the congregation. The minister's benign smile never faltered, so we knew it must be alright. A few days later, in the mail, came the explanation. A glossy folder. A 10 x 8 of us, singing a rather strained note. A personal invite to a banquet; our names in gold. And the cryptic slogan: "What Can The Church Do For You?" on all the promotional guff. Like innocents, we went to the banquet. To be wooed by professional fundraisers who for a fee would move into a congregation and rejuvenate its finances with a mix of team spirit, gentle bullying, well-chosen texts and soft soap. Never before had so many polite strangers shaken our hands, called us by our first names, asked us with transparent sincerity what our needs were, entertained us with quick wit and deference, insisted we had yet another helping. We'd have been churlish not to sign the Faith Pledge the nice man had started to fill out for us... Afterwards, fed, flattered and fleeced, we filed into the night. The cool air brought us down to earth and I asked a deacon: "How does it work, this banquet business. Who pays for it all?"

He grinned. "You do," he said. "The guys who organised it - they're a firm from London. We pay out of the petty cash for the grub and the photos and everything. And the firm gets a straight ten percent of all that's been pledged."

"What if people don't honour their pledges?" I queried.

"That's the snag," the deacon agreed cheerfully. "Those boys won't be around to worry. It'll be up to us to make sure you don't default. See you Sunday!"

Somehow the whole fundraising affair - a stewardship campaign, it had been - seemed awfully far removed from anything mentioned in the New Testament. But, after all, times change. And probably so do money-making techniques. I sighed as Eileen and I drove home to our little village gaol.

* * *

Time passed. We developed a bad attack of itchy feet.

Britain is a fantastic place - glorious scenery, historical buildings - but too many people live there. Something like fifty-five million, give or take. Then there's the weather. "Wonderful summer last year, old boy; on a Tuesday it was".

Eileen and I would discuss late into the night the possibility of emigrating. Only recently have we realised what a difficult thing is it to do. Once the kids are at high school, there's the problem of upsetting their education. When they've started work, you don't want to upset their career. Then they start courting... And if you wait until the family is off your hands and safely married, there are problems with one's own parents. Can't leave them now, not at their age.

Easiest to do nothing, just dream. But our two boys were at primary school; our parents hale and hearty. We bought a gazetteer and a large map of the world.

We'd nipped across to France for a day on one of the Channel ferries. That'd been enough to convince us that wherever we emigrated to had to be English-speaking. I'd asked for "cent" icecreams when I meant "cinq", and the man on the stop-me-and-buy-one had begun scooping strawberry ice into a hundred cones...

America wasn't on. Too go-go-go.

Canada had winters.

There was Malta. In the Med, so it had to be warm. Spoke English. And near enough for us to nip back to the U.K. if we didn't like it. However, God had other ideas.

We received an unusually eloquent letter from Eileen's younger sister. It was postmarked "New Zealand".

Shorn of all the usual family gossip, it said - "forget Malta; come here". Younger sister and husband had already succumbed to a terminal bout of itchy feet and sailed for the Antipodes. They seemed happily settled in some northern New Zealand city with an unspellable and unpronouncable name.

Whangarei.

We both knew that Enzed lay somewhere to the right of Australia. Half a world away.

Apart from that, our ignorance was abysmal. Yet, at the same time, something pinged. A quick trip to New Zealand House - asking the charming man with the funny accent all sorts of dumb questions - an armful of brochures and provincial newspapers - and we were convinced.

It was time to get ourselves organised.

First, our ex-post-office van had to be sold. In its place we bought a beautiful bottle-green brand-new diesel Landrover. Cost every bit of $2250 in them there days. Makes you weep, doesn't it.

Next, we had to arrange how to get there. Clever types - teachers, carpenters, that sort, only had to ante up with ten quid per head. The NZ government paid the rest.

But us - our skills principally came under the heading of "living on our wits".

Didn't qualify.

So that meant paying full fare for two adults, two kids, on the S.S.Australis, an elderly Greek boat that ploughed its way endlessly round the globe re-locating emigrants and pampering elderly tourists.

And we had to break the good news to our parents.

That was a wee bit tricky. Parents are never greatly enthusiastic to see their offspring vanish over the horizon. Never know what they might get up to.

So we were somewhat vague about our plans. "Might just be for a couple of years. After all, we mightn't like it."

(For the record - that was eighteen years ago. We're getting to like it.)

The day drew closer. Our Landrover went in advance by cargo boat.

We whittled our possessions down to a reasonable minimum. Our tickets entitled us to a fair cubic footage of suitcases and crates; it was still tricky to squeeze in all the goodies that might be useful in a primitive, out-of-the-way country.

Friends gave us going-away presents.

They do, don't they.

Soon as the last case is jam-packed, sat on and strapped, up they come with a pretty little, fragile little memento. "Put it in some odd corner," they say.

There aren't any odd corners. Even the kids' pockets are bulging.

So mostly we, er - disposed of the thoughtful gifts. Surreptitiously.

All except for a couple of books. A nursing friend of Eileen's came to say goodbye. Clutching a crumpled paper bag . Within was an elderly hardcover entitled "Billy Bray". Something about an eccentric Cornish miner, apparently. And a paperback. "They Speak With Other Tongues". Glossolalia. A psychological phenomenon.

We're suckers for books. They were tucked carefully into an odd corner of one of our suitcases.

* * *

Emigration has to be good for you.

Live all your life in one spot, you see everything from one viewpoint. Foreigners are odd. Probably dirty and dishonest. Our ways are correct.

But travel a bit...

Okay, foreigners are still odd. But no more than we are. And "our ways" are nothing but one of a million ways of doing and being and thinking.

The Australis sailed. We were to find what the far side of the world looked like.

The Bay of Biscay. Storm. Thirty-degree list. Grand piano smashes through ballroom wall. Passengers break legs. Stewards break crockery. Not many people at meals. Andersons never miss a course.

Gibraltar. Touring in horse-drawn carriages. Haggling for duty-frees. Socks at a shilling a pair.

Boat drill on the equator: sunstroke, anyone? New films daily in the ship's cinema. I learn to swim in a warm pool, tutored by an Olympic coach and a rope round my middle.

Cape Town. Near-deserted streets. Beggars. Prices in shops astronomical. Cable car to the top of Table Mountain. Look south: the city and our boat a toy below us; look north: Africa's veldt stretching ever on into the spring haze.

The Indian Ocean. A steady southerly from the Antarctic. Flying fish. Tournaments, contests, drunks, Greek classes.

Perth. Sunday - so we go to the Sallies. Compared with anything in Britain this is firmly middleclass. A woman with a minivan gives us a lightning tour of the city and the surrounding countryside.

Melbourne. Coach tours. Cook's cottage. The war memorial.

Sydney. Uncle Bill meets us. The brave one of the family, in his day. Left Britain. Joined an Australian circus. Bought a block of land near the Blue Mountains. Growing citrus. They've a snake in the outside dunny. "Harmless, though". Zoo. With kangaroos ("nah; wallabies") and koalas. Tea at something horribly expensive ("my shout," insists Bill, mercifully.)

Farewell Night Concert. "Keep in touch; this address'll find us." Drizzle in compared with Aussie. What's that - with the big bridge? "Dad, what does 'Haere Mai' mean?" "Dunno; a Mayorry name maybe."

Auckland, New Zealand. Clearing our crates and cases through Customs. It takes all day to catch an official. When we do, he marches round our embryo mountain in the warehouse, grunts, and okays the lot in ten seconds flat. Outside our Landrover waits. One tyre is flat, the toolkit has vanished and it has a parking ticket. Touching reunion with Eileen's younger sister. We head north for - what was it? - Whangarei.

* * *

A dollar for everyone we've heard of who met God as a result of coming to New Zealand would make us pretty rich.

Changing countries is traumatic. Everything is just that little bit different. Laws. Labels on tins of beans.

"Use our lay-by", said the notice in a shop window. So we drove up and down looking for their carpark. "Ladies, bring a plate" - and Eileen dutifully brought one plate. No food. A plate, as asked. Shopkeepers and solicitors call you by your first name. People drop in for coffee without a formal invite. The scruffy bloke fishing off the jetty, ragged shirt and two-day stubble, is something important at the bank.

Culture shock, they call it.

We bought jandals. Shorts. Practised saying "G'day". Found a ramshackle house in a few acres of rough pasture on the edge of the city and moved in.

And on Sunday, the four of us trotted hand in hand up to the nearby Brethren Hall.

The Brethren thing was new to us. But we'd been in religion long enough to pick up clues, learn do's, don'ts and unforgivable sins, and generally fit in.

The Onerahi Brethren were warm-hearted folk. In no time flat we were made to feel part of the fellowship.

In case you don't know - it is (or was then) a male-chauvinist world in Brethren Assemblies. At the Sunday morning service ("Breaking of Bread" or "Worship Service") any man can stand up and read scripture, announce a hymn or preach a bit. Not women, not no-how. After the "breaking of bread" there is a pause, then a scheduled (male) speaker gives the sermon.

Sunday evening is the "Gospel Service". This is as informal as the morning do is formal. But once again: speakers are (or were) male. Female organists. Even soloists. But never speakers.

(Which poses an intermittent problem. Brethren are enthusiastic about missionaries. Male. And female. And when a female mishie comes round on "deputation work" - in-jargon for drumming up next year's finances - it's a bit of a problem to have a meeting-that-isn't-really-a-meeting so she can speak. Some groups get around the problem by putting chairs in the church kitchen...)

We weren't greatly bothered by the male-dominated scene. The folk were friendly. That was all that mattered.

Within a few weeks I was being encouraged to "say a few words". Take part in the midweek discussions. Even have a regular spot on the preaching roster.

Enter, one bright February morning, Hurricane Colleen.

The story of how our roof was wrenched off has been told in "Beyond Murphy's Law". So, too, has the story of how, after that devastating event, God decided to introduce Himself to me.

That was as much a shock as the hurricane had been.

"Had you never met God before?" Eileen asked. I grinned ruefully. "Never realised anyone could meet Him," I replied.

Which wasn't true. For, as I stopped shaking in my shoes, I remembered what happened to Eileen some nine years before. At last it made sense: she knew God in the way I now knew Him.

"It'll be nice if it lasts", I added. Honestly, if somewhat unspiritually.

But I wanted to be honest. Because, now that I'd met God , maybe - just maybe - there were problems that could be faced up to. Dealt with. Problems in our marriage.

We hadn't been prepared to admit them to anybody. After all, at the start, with my father as our minister - that didn't make for a relaxed counselling session. And behind my leaving the Civil Service and our leaving Britain had been one main aim.

Each time: a new start. It'd helped. Not enough, though. Now...

Things were different. God was here. Both Eileen and I knew Him.

It was almost hilarious. From the day we were married, we'd read the Bible together - cover to cover, genealogies, the lot - four times. Studied Greek. Church history. Comparative theology. Preached fundamentalist, evangelical sermons. Tithed.

It hadn't helped. Yet now...

Even though the emotion of my encounter with God quickly faded, the reality remained.

We had communication with God. Problems began to have answers.

It was a bit embarrassing to tell the Brethren elders what happened. Still, it had to be done.

"Er, I know I was preaching last Sunday. But, er, I got saved on Wednesday." "Call it re-dedication," one of them suggested. "Not really. Re-dedication is something I gave up doing years ago. Nothing ever happened. This time, though, something did. Besides - I want to be baptised." "Again?" "Well - it isn't again. Not strictly. I was done when I was fifteen because everybody was done. Like the Anglicans do babies. Now its different. I know."

The elders were very understanding. Within two or three weeks I was baptised. Which, as far as I was concerned, was it.

Eileen and I were saved. There was nothing more to do but wait for the Rapture. And if that were delayed, well, we'd go to Heaven when we died. It was all very restful, relaxing. And wrong.

As the song says - we'd only just begun.

* * *

With the arrival of our daughter there were now five Andersons to enter on the census forms.

Events began to move fast.

Soon after my baptism, I was scheduled to preach at the evening gospel service.

It was one of those meetings that really flowed. The hall was crowded, the hymns didn't drag, the sermon held everyone's attention.

As the congregation streamed out, I stood at the door shaking hands and saying goodnight.

And God spoke.

Now - some people get a bit twitchy about 'God said' or 'God told me'.

"You mean 'you felt' or 'you thought', don't you?" say they. Often enough, they're right. It's only a long time afterwards that we work out that, gosh, it was really God putting those thoughts into our minds.

This time, though, God spoke.

"Pardon?"

"I made it. Same as I always do. Chose a subject, found a text to hang it on, and a few illustrations -."

"But..." I carried on shaking hands and saying goodnight mechanically.

The last hand to be shaken was that of one of the elders.

"Good message, George."

"Ah. Well. That's what I want to talk to you about. You see, er, I'd like you to take my name off the preaching roster."

"How come?"

"Actually, God wants it. I'm, er, not to make up sermons. I'm only to preach when God gives me something to say."

The elder scratched his head. Perhaps I'd like to borrow a book on sermon-making, he suggested. Chock-full of ideas, it was. I declined with thanks.

He shrugged. I realised that I was being a bit of a nuisance, but didn't want to upset my new-found relationship with God.

At home, I told Eileen what had happened. I wondered how she would react.

There was no need to worry.

"If that's what God wants, that's what you must do," she agreed. "It'll make life a lot easier for the rest of us, too. You're always like a bear with a sore head during the week before you have to preach."

I was suitably indignant.

"Well! So would you be. There's a lot of preparing to do. I have to keep going over it in my mind to make sure I've got it right. No wonder I get a bit tense."

Eileen smiled the sort of smile that wives give when husbands understate the painfully obvious.

"Yes, dear. But perhaps there'd be no need to get a bit tense if God told you what to say."

If!

The question was - when? How long would I have to wait before I could get back onto that platform?

Meanwhile, we had to do something.

"Look, Eileen. If I'm not allowed to preach, surely we can evangelise. Save souls. I mean - we both know God. Let's go from house to house and tell people about Him."

Eileen thought for a moment, then said diplomatically: "All right, dear. You show me how to do it, and I'll help you."

She's not daft, that one. Whereas, muggins here gets in boots and all, bites off more than he can chew and winds up holding the baby. If you get my meaning.

Monday morning saw us, bright and early, down at the Bible Bookshop buying tracts. Bright ones. Glossy ones. Nice modern ones.

Then off to a likely part of town to start saving the unsuspecting citizens. Silverstream Road, as I remember. Not too flash, not too cheap. All needy sinners waiting to be saved.

"Better make a start, eh," I said nervously.

Eileen indicated that she would follow me up the path and watch my performance.

I was downright scared.

Knock-knock. The door was opened by a cigarette-smoking housewife.

"Yes?" "Good morning, madam. I'd like to tell you about the gospel of the Lord -." The door was closed. Just like that. I gave Eileen a sheepish grin. "Probably she's busy. Let's try next door."

Knock-knock. "Good morning, madam -." "We 'ad the Witnesses round last week." Slam.

Knock-knock. "Good mor-." "Nothangyou." Slam.

Eight houses later, I admitted defeat. Irritably I marched down the road stuffing tracts in mailboxes.

Eileen followed me, maintaining a discreet silence.

I stuffed the final tract.

"It doesn't work!" I exclaimed angrily. "It doesn't flamin' work! They didn't even give me a chance to talk to them."

"Did you expect them to?" Eileen asked.

"Of course I did. Look - I've been doing Christian work for years without really believing I'd get results. That was before I met God. Now it ought to be completely different. We're told to go into all the world and preach the gospel. I know God's with us. Why doesn't anything happen?"

We drove home gloomily.

Over an unenthusiastic lunch we held our post mortem.

"They weren't interested."

"Should they have been? Mormons, J.W.s - they get done over pretty often. Why should some harrassed housewife think we're any different?"

"God, of course. After all - He got through to us. Why didn't He tell the people we called on to listen to us?"

Eileen thought, then asked: "What was it you said when you got saved?"

"'It'll be nice if it lasts'."

"Not that! Before. Something about religion."

I thought hard. Whatever was it? I'd been desperate...

"'God - I give up religion. It doesn't work'."

"Mm. Perhaps there's a clue there. Perhaps we're being too religious. Perhaps God wants to show us something a bit different."

Ever noticed that, with God, events move jerkily? Erratically? Nothing happens for ages, then all of a once there's a whoosh and a roar and it's all systems go.

It isn't that He's been busy somewhere else and then something jogs His memory. "Ah, yes. The Andersons. Been neglecting them lately. Must hustle them along a bit to catch up."

It's not like that. He's been working on us. Steadily. Then all kinds of lessons and events come to a particular point and focus, and there's a flurry of activity we can see.

Our flurry was about to begin. We didn't know it, but God was working on us to bring us into His kingdom. And it's nothing automatic and airy-fairy. There are clear steps. You don't even get a glimpse of the kingdom until you're born again. And there are two further events that need to take place before you can qualify for admission.

One is baptism in water.

Don't get us wrong. It isn't necessary for being born again. That comes by grace through faith plus nothing. Full stop.

But one of the keys of the kingdom is baptism. Someone described the rite as "a kind of exorcism", and maybe that's pretty accurate. When you are plunged under the water and lifted up again, it is an enactment that you have died, but Christ is risen. Your life, per se, is over; it is the life of Christ which now animates you. All the legitimate rights Satan had over you stop at that point; he has no rights over the Lord Jesus: he can have none over you. But you can't apply to enter the kingdom - the rulership of God - if another master has claims on you.

Just a couple of points. Baptising babies is lovely and meaningful and has precisely nothing to do with anything in the New Testament. And denominations like the Sallies that don't teach baptism do teach backsliding; they expect it; it happens.

Where were we? Oh, yes - sitting glumly wondering why our door-knocking evangelism didn't work.

There was a knock on our door. An insurance agent. No, we're not interested . Yes, we've all the cover we need. (We did in those days.) No, we'd rather not know about your wonderful new policy. Then I had a bright idea.

"Would you like a cup of tea?" The salesman blinked. He'd tried for a foot in the door, been rebuffed, and now invited in. It didn't make sense. But there was method in my madness.

Evangelism. To a captive audience.

We led him indoors. Sat him down. Poured a cuppa. And started telling him about the Lord.

It was a day of disappointments. The bloke was a bloomin' believer.

We told him of our door-knocking failure. He looked at us shrewdly. "You're members at the local Brethren?"

"They don't have a formal membership," Eileen said. "We attend. Take part. At least, George takes part."

The agent nodded.

"You've crossed the Red Sea. There's still Sinai."

We looked blankly at him. He pulled pad and pencil from his briefcase and scrawled a rough diagram.

"The Old Testament is history, okay? It's also symbolic, mostly of the Christian life. Take the Israelites in Egypt - that's a picture of a person before conversion. Now, God orders the Passover. The lamb slain - a type of Christ - and the blood applied. That's redemption. Conversion. Okay?

Okay.

"Out of Egypt. Up to the Red Sea. Israelites go through; Pharoah and his armies are drowned. That's water baptism: where you two are at this moment."

We agreed.

"Right! But that's not the end of the story. Fifty days later the Israelites reach Sinai. D'you know what feast the Jews have to celebrate that event?"

We didn't. Passover was the only feast we'd heard of.

"Pentecost. Means 'fifty'. And just like the fire came down on Sinai, so in the New Testament fifty days after the crucifixion there were tongues of fire at Pentecost."

It was all very interesting. We began to thank him and gathered up the teacups.

"Hang on a moment. What were the disciples like before Pentecost? Scared. Ineffective. What were they like afterwards? Bold. Effective. With a supernatural power they hadn't known before. Healing the sick, raising the dead, speaking in tongues..."

"We've a book about that," interrupted Eileen, pointing to our bookcase.

The salesman followed her pointing finger.

"And 'Billy Bray' too," he observed. "There are plenty of stories about people who received the Holy Spirit as an event after their conversion. In the Bible, in books. It's still happening."

We showed him to the door. He thanked us for the tea.

"Perhaps I'll see you some more. Meanwhile - read Acts. It's all in there."

He went off. I scowled at his retreating form. Pentecost , indeed. That's probably what he was - a Pentecostal. I'd been around the Brethren long enough to know that whatever they were, it wasn't really nice. They went to excess. Went into tongues. Went overboard. They were noisy.

I told Eileen so. She said that the man was quite subdued, really.

Then the mail came.

It was one of those days. Our friendly neighbourhood bank needed money. Like - all it had loaned us to buy our house.

Shock and horror. Sure, it hadn't been a formal mortgage, just an overdraft. But we'd been paying off bits here and there. There was ample security.

They wanted their money back.

Money was something we hadn't much of. I'd read this article in a Women's Weekly about someone in Rotorua who did magnificent pictures with a gadget called a pokerwork machine. So I'd rung up the local radio station, put a request on "Buy, Sell and Exchange", and for all of $10 had acquired a battered transformer-and-handpiece from someone whose kids no longer needed their names burned on footy boots.

I had this feeling, see, that we could build up a craft business. Burning plaques. Selling them around the gift shops. Especially Maori souvenirs. It was just a wee bit slow in catching on.

"If we didn't owe money on the house," said Eileen.

"We were nearly clear of debt, back in England," I pointed out. "The fares here set us back quite a bit."

"What if we sold this? Found somewhere cheaper. Something we could pay cash for."

So we made promising noises to the bank. Put the house up for sale. And found a buyer. Not quite just like that, but to cut a long story short.

And looked round for a house we could afford.

Have you ever tried to tell a Real Estate agent what you want? They're lovely blokes, bless 'em. But they've got a blind spot somewhere. They know best.

When we'd arrived in Enzed we'd gone round saying we wanted something scruffy in the the country - and were driven around endless rows of new developments in choice little suburbs.

This time we wanted something - anything: shed, barn or bach - in the country. For cash. Must be for cash.

"How much have you got?" "Six grand." (That was the good old days.) "That'll be just right as a deposit..."

Only one agent got the picture. He grabbed his car keys and looked at us reflectively. "I know someone who wants cash quick. You make your minds up, we've got a deal. He's being pushed by the bank..."

We drove up through Kamo. Past the snootier residences, past a down-at-heel Maori settlement, out into farmland.

A side road. Dry-stone walls. And a little unpainted fibrolite shingle house standing alone in one-third of an acre.

It was perfect.

We bought it.

Moving to the other end of the city gave us an excuse to withdraw gracefully from the Brethren. They couldn't have been more friendly towards us, but found my refusal to preach a bit of a puzzle. Near our new home were a couple of Brethren Assemblies. We refused an introduction (a "letter of commendation" in the trade) to either, explaining that we'd rather like to shop around. The elders were unhappy.

"Folk who leave the Brethren tend to either backslide or go pentecostal," they warned, cryptically.

It didn't bother us; we intended to do neither. There was nothing specific we had in mind. Enjoy our debt-free home - the relief of not having to set aside the repayments any more. Build up our craft business (almost a living, now). Enjoy our three children. Ask God what, what, what life was meant to be about.

Our nearest neighbours were Christians. That was nice. They were Pentecostals. That was worrying.

("We won't get too friendly. Just in case.")

Meanwhile, we were reading Acts. With the intention of proving to ourselves that we'd "got it all at conversion". It was somewhat of a pity that the Bible kept telling stories of people who needed some second experience. Often with someone "laying on hands". That wasn't at all nice.

Mostly we stayed home on Sundays. Unless some group had a film. Then we'd tiptoe in late into a back seat, tiptoe out immediately the benediction was given.

Which was why we made an appearance at the Baptists in Bank Street. Which was how we picked up a copy of a newsletter. Dull things, newsletters. Challenging word from the minister; who's who on crèche duty and flowers; grand youth rally; Old Mrs. Thing is in hospital again. Plus there was a home meeting at Harry and Jean's place.

Those names rang bells. I pointed them out to Eileen.

"Them? They'll be the couple whose boy had a brain tumour. He was supposed to be healed, remember?"

I remembered. Even in the no-nonsense Brethren we'd heard an odd story. A whisper. A rumour that something off-beat was happening. Something about someone's little lad who was dying. Then, unaccountably, he was improving. The word "miracle" was used.

The story of the strange event is told in "Beyond Murphy's Law". For us at that time it seemed something of a fairytale.

"Tell you what," I suggested. "Let's go to their home meeting. Might get the chance to question them about it."

God has a sense of humour. Later we learned that their house group had been a bit of a success up to then. Always well attended.

That Wednesday, only we turned up.

Jean spotted us walking up the path. We must have appeared depressingly respectable.

"Don't say anything about you-know-what," she whispered to Harry. "They look a couple of conservatives."

Which, of course, we were. And for a while, although they made us feel welcome, the conversation was stilted with small talk. I tried to sum them up before probing into the truth - or otherwise - of the "miracle" in their family.

They were about our age. Three children. Good, bright, sociable - in a way that I regarded as typically Baptist.

Then there was something else, an enthusiasm that kept bubbling up into every topic. God seemed to get a mention more frequently than was strictly necessary. Almost as if this couple felt they knew Him better than we did.

"Tell us about your son," I said abruptly. "We heard he's been ill."

They told us. It was a long story. And it had the ring of truth. Yet, important as the healing of their son was, there was something even more vital to us than that.

"You kept saying how you two were changed during all this. Eileen and I are Christians, yet we're not at all sure that we're satisfied with the way we are. Somehow there's got to be something more."

Harry and Jean looked at each other. A sort of knowing look.

"There is," agreed Harry. "It's called the Baptism of the Spirit."

The four of us must have talked late into the night. We told them some of our background. They took us on a whirlwind tour of scripture, amazing us with the number of times reference is made to people receiving the Holy Spirit after conversion. And they told us of friends of theirs who had shared in this experience.

"In fact," said Jean, "It's a bit of a problem in our congregation. Some are for it, some against it. It could cause trouble."

Finally, after many hours, we said goodnight. Harry pressed into our hands a quantity of cassettes and books. "They're good value. Listen to 'em, read 'em. Let's know what you think."

From that point, we were able to admit to ourselves that what we were after - and what we lacked - was the baptism of the Spirit. And, privately, we asked God for it.

Nothing happened.

"What about getting someone to lay hands on us," ventured Eileen. "They did that in Acts."

"I don't like it," I grumbled. It was decidedly un-English and un-Calvinist.

"Then perhaps God'll insist on it." And the sinking feeling in my stomach suggested she was right.

So, reluctantly, I made an appointment to see the Baptist minister.

"We understand that you and your members are looking at the charismatic move."

"Ah - yes." He was cautious. The subject was a hot potato.

"Eileen and I would like you to lay hands of us to receive the Holy Spirit."

We didn't know that we were the first people to ask him to do that. Nor did we know that, at that time, he himself hadn't received the Spirit.

"Ah - well. Yes, if you insist."

We leaned forward expectantly. With one hand on each of our heads he prayed.

Nothing happened.

We thanked him and left.

"What now?" demanded Eileen.

"We won't give up. How about we ask our pentecostal neighbours?"

That took even more courage than approaching the Baptist minister. Pentecostals weren't safe.

And in their kitchen we were anything but relaxed and at ease as they prayed loudly and uninhibitedly for us. I must've sat there clearly tense and unhappy, for at one point the husband clouted me goodnaturedly over the head with his Bible and exclaimed: "You're starchy, brother!"

Nothing happened.

Then our Pentecostal insurance agent came a-doorknocking. Recognising us, he dropped his sales patter and ask how we were doing. Spiritually.

He nodded at our answer.

"Not to worry. Look - our bunch are having a special series of meetings all this week. Why don't you come along?"

Why not, indeed.

Now, if you are a Pentecostal - or a charismatic - you'll know the kind of meeting we found ourselves in. If you're not - you'll have heard of them.

Untidy. Disorderly. Kids half-dozing in sleeping bags around the hall. People wandering around, chattering. Somebody trying to tune a guitar to a battered piano. Noise. And a few outsiders like ourselves hoping they won't be noticed.

In one sense it was enjoyable. The choruses were singalong and the crowd was raring to sing. The preaching was vivid and quick-fire. Then came the appeal. Or altar call. For people to receive the Holy Spirit.

Eileen and I wriggled down in our seats so we wouldn't be noticed.

In front of us was a young fellow we knew. Quite a shy type. Diffident. Not at all brash or aggressive. He was sitting there, awkward, embarrassed. Then - up he got. Shuffled along the row and out to the front. The speaker put one hand on his head and prayed. Briefly.

It was like turning on a little electric light. I nudged Eileen. "That's for real," I muttered.

The young fellow had forgotten his surroundings, forgotten his shyness, and with hands raised he was talking to the Lord. Enthusiastically. Eagerly. In - as far as I could hear - another language.

The meeting continued. When the young man finally lowered his hands and looked around him, he was unabashed to see that most of the congregation had been watching him. He just smiled and went back to his seat.

Transformed.

I leaned across to Eileen.

"That's what I want."

"Why didn't you go forward then?"

"Too scared."

Afterwards, as the crowd was filing out, we tiptoed to the speaker and asked if he would pray for us. His laugh caused heads to turn in our direction.

"No way!" he said flatly. "If you're not prepared to come out publicly, I'm not prepared to pray for you. There's another meeting tomorrow. See you then."

We were there for that next meeting. At the altar call, guess who were the first two up and running...

* * *