I slumped against the rough asphalt, weariness wrapping around me like a heavy shroud. The sun dipped below the horizon, surrendering the sky to a creeping darkness that enveloped everything in its path. Before me, the lagoon whispered secrets as tiny waves lapped at jagged rocks, their rhythm both soothing and mocking. A fierce hunger clawed at my insides—an insatiable beast born from two weeks of hospital confinement where my spastic colon had waged war against any morsel I dared to consume. The moment I was deemed fit for release, they cast me back into this unforgiving world. My elbow throbbed, a painful reminder of the IV drip that had tethered me to sterile confines just days before.

I fixed my gaze on the inky water as shadows crept around me, my body trembling with a mix of sickness and fatigue. The waves whispered like a haunting echo, “Tell me what’s wrong,” “Tell me what’s wrong.” In that moment of despair, I unleashed the torrent of my soul. “Why?” I cried out into the void. “What have I done to deserve this?” “Why does my life feel like a barren wasteland, an endless desert?” “A relentless nightmare with no escape, a suffocating darkness that swallows the dawn?” “Why have you abandoned me, leaving only desolation in your wake?” “Why must despair be my constant companion?” “What was the purpose of my birth if it leads to this torment?”

A wave of self-loathing crashed over me, intertwined with sinister accusations. “God despises you!” “You’re unworthy of His love!” “You’re damned!” “Hell awaits you!” The litany echoed in my mind, stretching on for what felt like an eternity. Tears streamed down my face like relentless rain, each sob siphoning the last remnants of strength from my weary mind. I huddled there, trembling and broken. It was as if my spirit had shattered into countless fragments, a fragile Humpty Dumpty destined to remain forever scattered. Eventually, the torment receded; the tears subsided and the violent shivers ceased. I let out a shaky breath. “What am I supposed to do?” I murmured softly, “Should I return to the city?” The mere idea sent a chill racing down my spine.

A flicker of movement caught my eye, pulling my attention to the side. I pivoted to see an owl perched on a nearby fence post, no more than ten feet away. Its golden eyes were locked onto mine, unblinking and intense. Time seemed to stand still as I held its gaze, heart pounding in my chest like a drum. The owl remained perfectly still, an enigmatic sentinel in the fading light.

We locked eyes for what felt like an eternity, though I couldn’t measure the time. The creature perched silently on its post, a shadowy figure shrouded in an eerie stillness that enveloped the area like a dense mist. Seconds stretched into minutes, and minutes expanded into hours as we remained frozen in that moment. Then, with a sudden blink of its enormous eyes, it surged forward into the sky. A soft whisper brushed past me as it soared away, echoing in my mind: “Your answer will come in the morning!”

A gentle warmth of hope wrapped around me, easing the rapid thud of my heart and quieting the storm in my mind. I reclined against my bag, a makeshift pillow cradling my head, and gazed upward at the stars winking brightly above. Thoughts of the owl flitted through my mind—had it sensed my sorrow, been a silent witness to my struggles? More pressing was the question of whether God was aware of my fears. Did He see the weight of my torment? Could He hear the silent pleas escaping my lips for salvation? Would dawn bring me rescue? I pulled my jacket tighter around me, nestled into the cool grass, and surrendered to sleep.

As the first light of dawn crept in on that Sunday morning, I stirred awake. My stomach churned like an empty abyss, craving sustenance. With every ounce of willpower, I pushed myself upright, willing the wave of dizziness to recede. It lingered longer than expected, leaving me momentarily disoriented. Was last night merely a figment of my imagination? I scanned my surroundings—the glistening water shimmered nearby, and the weathered fence post stood sentinel. The haunting image of the owl’s piercing gaze flashed through my mind before it vanished into the shadows. Above me, the sky stretched out in a rich blue canvas, adorned with delicate wisps of high clouds. The sun climbed higher with relentless intensity as a refreshing breeze danced across the surface of the water. Yet amidst this tranquil scene, a nagging question gnawed at me, battling against my body’s urgent demand for food: “What was I going to do?” Morning had arrived—would clarity follow?

Cape Town, the vibrant city I had departed from just two months prior, loomed four hundred kilometers in the distance. It had taken five grueling days to get from Cape Town to here. The prospect of returning sent a chill through me. Was I strong enough to make the journey in my fragile state? Would I find myself collapsed on the roadside, a forgotten figure? These haunting thoughts gnawed at my resolve.

Hunger gnawed at my insides like a persistent animal, pushing me to rise. I pushed myself upright, hoisted my bag over one shoulder, and trudged toward the distant outline of town. Each step felt heavy as I navigated the uneven pavement, the sun creeping higher in the sky, casting shadows that stretched across the cracked sidewalks of the dilapidated road into town. After what felt like an eternity, I finally emerged into the outer suburbs, having covered just over a kilometer in more than an hour.

Each step was a struggle, as if I were trudging through thick, viscous jelly. An unseen force clung to me, determined to hinder my progress, to keep me from reaching whatever destination awaited. I fought against the heaviness that wrapped around my limbs, each movement a battle of will. My mind echoed commands like a metronome: “Lift your foot, now place it down; don’t falter—keep moving, one more step…”

A soft melody drifted through the air, pulling me toward a T-junction where two paths diverged. One led to the town, bustling and familiar; the other beckoned with the haunting strains of distant singing. Curiosity tugged at me, and I chose the music—it had the warmth of a church service. I could always circle back to town later if needed.

As I approached, the voices grew clearer, harmonizing in English. Finally, I caught sight of the building framed against the twilight sky. I paused on the opposite side of the road, my heart quickening as I read the words etched on its wall: AGS Lighuis—an Afrikaans church steeped in history.

A wave of uncertainty washed over me. Would the Afrikaners really accept a wandering Englishman like me among them? The church loomed above, its second-floor entrance framed by a set of stairs that twisted in opposite directions, leading to an inviting yet intimidating narrow door. I lingered at the bottom, paralyzed by indecision, my gaze fixed on the vacant threshold. The first hymn faded into silence, only to be replaced by another melody, still in English.

A young boy, perhaps seven, materialized in the doorway, his gaze fixed on me with an intensity that sent a shiver down my spine. His tousled blond hair framed a face that seemed almost ethereal, and he was clad in a crisp white shirt that glowed faintly in the dim light. Our eyes locked in a silent exchange, reminiscent of the haunting stare of the owl I had encountered just the night before.

A wave of shame washed over me, prompting me to look away. The boy dashed down the first flight of stairs, his voice ringing out, “Come in, come in, kom binne!” I paused to watch him. His face lit up with a smile as he beckoned me closer, repeating his cheerful invitation. I returned his smile, but my eyes brimmed with tears. The words from scripture echoed in my mind: “out of the mouth of babes and sucklings.”

I inhaled deeply and stepped toward the staircase. The boy darted up the stairs, glanced back to beckon me forward, then vanished through the doorway. As I crossed the threshold into the hall, my eyes scanned the crowd of about thirty people. The boy was nowhere in sight. I settled into a seat at the back, feeling a wave of uncertainty wash over me. The singing concluded, giving way to the rest of the service, which unfolded entirely in Afrikaans—each word slipping past me like a foreign breeze that I couldn’t grasp.

As the service drew to a close, the minister extended an invitation for anyone seeking prayer to come forward. My heart raced as I stepped into the aisle, each footfall echoing my unease. When I reached the front, my voice quivered with vulnerability as I shared my story with the minister. “I’m struggling,” I confessed, “a drug addict… just spent ten days in a hospital.” The words tumbled out in a rush, a jumbled mix of fear and desperation spilling from my lips.

He gently draped his arm over my shoulder, his touch warm and reassuring as he beckoned a few elders to join us. Together, we stepped into a dimly lit room at the back, where the earthy scent of hay lingered in the air. Inside, a weathered farmer with silver-streaked hair sat beside his son, their faces etched with lines that spoke of hard work and shared stories.

The elderly farmer leaned closer, his weathered hands resting on the wooden table as he struggled with his words in halting English. Curiosity flickered in his eyes as he inquired about my arrival at the church. I recounted the story of the young boy who had beckoned me inside. At this, a spark ignited within him, and he pressed for more details. I painted a picture of the child: around seven years old, with tousled blond hair that caught the sunlight, dressed simply in a crisp white shirt that seemed to glow against the backdrop of the dusty church walls.

His expression was one of bewilderment, and soon the others erupted into a flurry of animated chatter in Afrikaans, their fingers darting toward me like arrows. The farmer summoned his wife into the room, and the lively discussion surged forward, her gaze locked onto me, an unsettling pallor washing over her features as if she had just seen a ghost.

The room gradually hushed, all eyes fixed on me. The farmer leaned closer, his voice low and careful in his fractured English. “There is no such boy in the church!” Confusion washed over me as I shook my head in disbelief. “But,” I stammered, “I saw him! He… he called to me…” A warm smile broke across the farmer’s face, his eyes sparkling with understanding as he nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, we believe you! But there is no such boy in this church!”

The hush enveloping the room felt as heavy as a thick fog. Time appeared to freeze, each person locked in their own moment of disbelief. An overwhelming sense of divine presence washed over us, an unshakeable weight pressing down on my chest. The realization crashed into me like a freight train; my mind raced with frantic clarity. I remembered the boy who had beckoned me inside—everyone thought he was real, yet he was nothing more than an illusion.

Images from the previous night flooded my thoughts—my heartache, my hopeless pleas echoing in the darkness, questions swirling like leaves in a storm. I recalled the owl perched silently above, a harbinger of answers yet to come. My mind drifted to that walk into town, where it felt as if unseen hands were tugging at my heels, urging me to linger longer than necessary.

What if I had paused for just five minutes and missed the haunting melody? If that song had never reached my ears, I would have remained oblivious to the boy’s existence…

I raised my gaze to the farmer, taking in the beaming faces of everyone gathered around. The farmer gestured toward his wife, his voice barely above a whisper as he shared that she had dreamed earlier that week of an Englishman arriving to spend the season with them.

The revelation arrived, as if orchestrated by divine hands. Thus, a new chapter in my quest toward my destined path unfolded—one I had almost overlooked.

For seven months, I immersed myself in the life of a remarkable farming family—an industrious farmer, his devoted wife, three energetic sons, and a spirited daughter. Together, we toiled on their expansive land, where carrots stretched nearly a foot long, pumpkins rivaled the size of small boulders, and broccoli stood tall alongside butternut squash and cabbages that were unlike anything I had ever encountered before.

to be continued…