Miracle on a mountain

I started smoking in December 1968, a month shy of my thirteenth birthday. My mother smoked and it looked so cool. I stole some of her cigarettes. It tasted disgusting and made me feel ill. But I pushed on. Addiction, as any smoker knows, comes fast. Super-fast. I soon stopped stealing my mother’s smokes. She used “consulate” in those days. They were menthol and pretty gross. I became a victim of advertising. “Smoke Lexington”, the advert went, “For after action satisfaction”. You have to say this with a deep American drawl, of course. I have included a 1960's version of this add below, just for fun. 

Fast forward twenty-seven years. I was a month shy of my thirty-ninth birthday. Alex, our oldest daughter was eleven and the twins, Richard and Tory, nine. On 17 December 1995, my mother married for the fourth and final time. Having buried her third husband some years earlier she’d been swept off her feet by Henry, a delightful gentleman.  Two days later, my miracle would happen. But I need to back up a bit.

Shortly before my final law exams in 1982 to the astonishment of family and friends, I quit smoking. To my own amazement, I passed all save one subject but managed to crack the ‘sup they gave me the following February. Deb and I had married on her birthday in February the previous year. She continued smoking.

In an act of sheer stupidity a year later, I fell off the wagon. I’ll spare you the details. By the time of my mama’s last wedding, I had smoked for the best part of twenty-eight years. For most of those at the rate of not less than twenty a day. My body was ravaged. I had difficulty breathing first thing in the morning due to a lump in my throat that was perceptibly growing. I was frequently unable to use my left hand due to a paralysis of sorts. I was told that this was directly due to nerve damage inflicted by smoking. To say that the writing was on the wall would be an epic understatement.

I knew I had to quit but I didn’t have the willpower. Deb and I had resorted to ruses such as buying smokes from the local superette “mudzanga-mudzanga” or “one-one” in Shona to try and limit consumption. My children hated me in these periods. I had a permanent headache and a huge dose of intense irritability. I would snap at them for the least reason. I think that most people who have quit smoking will recognise these symptoms. Of course, none of these things worked.

Deb and I have great friends, Jo and Klaus. They remain so to this day. They had come to our rescue after Deb pulled our children out of our local government school. My precious Deb, bless her heart, tried home schooling but soon discovered that neither she nor our children had the right temperament for this. Within a few days Jo took all three of our children into a delightful small private school that she and Klaus had created for their children, Tom and Tristan.  Jo and Klaus lived in Harare but have a beautiful farm in Inyanga, (now called Nyanga) in Zimbabwe’s eastern highlands. Their farm overlooks Mount Inyangani, Zimbabwe’s tallest mountain. The views or stunningly beautiful. The picture to the left is of that mountain. But it doesn’t really do it justice. This is where my miracle would happen.

Our three spent a lot of time at Jo and Klaus’ farm with Tris and Tom. Their parents ran annual outward bound courses there during holidays. They had an absolute blast. A huge wilderness with pine forests, waterfalls and wildlife to explore. Deb and I often pitied the children of families who elected to do the “chicken run” as it became known, fleeing newly independent Zimbabwe in 1980. Many of the latter probably ended up in tiny apartments or concrete jungles. Our three by comparison lived great outdoor lives with brilliant education. They went on explorations to see to lands the Matabele people had conquered under King Mzilikazi after he broke away from the tyranny of Zulu King Chaka. They learned to load and fire a tower musket and see how the early Rhodesian pioneers had lived. And sooo much more. But I digress.  

On the day after my mother’s wedding Deb, the children and I departed for Jo and Klaus’s Nyanga farm. We took a back road past Nyanzura which we had never before used and saw amazing scenery unlike the miombo woodlands or scrub bush typical of other parts of the country. Jo and Klaus have a beautiful second house on their farm in which Deb and I had spent countless wonderful days over the years.

On the morning of the 19 November 1995, Deb and I drove to the main house to say farewell to Jo, Klaus and our children. Alex, Rich and Tors would be staying on at the farm for the next week. Just before eleven am I walked a short distance across the front lawn and stood staring out at the glorious view of Mt Inyangani’s peak. I was intensely wrestling with myself about the need to quit smoking. I knew without a shadow of a doubt that if I didn’t succeed and succeed soon, I would not live to see my children grow up. I had no thought to ask the Lord for help. I don’t know why. I had been a strong believer for many years. In retrospect I wonder if it was Satan himself who put the possibility of divine help out of my head.

So, and this is me talking silently but entirely to myself. “I really need to give up smoking but I don’t know how”. And at that exact moment Jesus said to me with absolute clarity, “I’ll give you my miracle”. You may wonder how I knew that it was the Lord speaking. I didn’t see Him. But there on that beautiful mountain without the tiniest shred of doubt, he saved my life. I knew who was speaking because when Jesus wants to talk to a person directly, He makes it clear. My mind reeled. I can’t tell you exactly what thoughts and emotions went through my head but it seemed like a kaleidoscope. Something utterly unexpected. I have since wondered whether the intensity of feeling may have been, in a distant sense, akin to the high induced by mainline drugs. Praise the Lord I have never tried those but I’m not sure how else to describe the sensation of being in the immediate presence of our most holy Lord and saviour.

I walked back to the house. Jo asked me if I was okay. I guess I must have become very pale. I said that I was fine. Deb and I said our goodbyes and clambered into our car, heading out down the mountain road. Almost immediately, I handed Deb my cigarettes. “Throw these out of the window please,” I demanded dramatically.

“Don’t be silly”, Deb answered, “You’ll just stop at the garage at Juliasdale and buy more. What a waste of money.”

“I will never smoke again”, I replied vehemently. Deb obliged and that was the end of my smoking story. No cravings, no bad temper, not even a miniscule desire to smoke. When offered a cigarette at functions or parties there was zero temptation to accept. In fact, I became almost allergic to cigarette smoke. To this day, twenty-nine years later, I still hate the smell. The lump in my throat disappeared. The nerves in my left wrist healed. I am sadly one of those people who gain weight just be looking at food. But I beat the weight gain by a tradeoff: Endorphins in place of nicotine.  I became a fitness fanatic. Deb would smoke for another five years. But she was brilliant and no longer smoked in the house. The story as to how she quit is an epic one in terms of our family life. I’ll tell you that another time

 ¹ I lift up my eyes to the mountains –
    where does my help come from?

² My help comes from the Lord,
    the Maker of heaven and earth.

³ He will not let your foot slip –
    he who watches over you will not slumber;
⁴ indeed, he who watches over Israel
    will neither slumber nor sleep.

⁵ The Lord watches over you –
    the Lord is your shade at your right hand;
⁶ the sun will not harm you by day,
    nor the moon by night.

⁷ The Lord will keep you from all harm –
    he will watch over your life;
⁸ the Lord will watch over your coming and going
    both now and for evermore.

Psalm 121:1-8 (NIVUK) Praise be to God in the Highest.

Rereading that Psalm, the emotion of that morning in 1995 comes back to me as if it were yesterday. I can only echo, praise be to the Lord.