It’s crazy, really. Becoming attached to an item of clothing as to an old friend. But that’s what had happened with my Vanuatu cap. It wasn’t the cap itself, of course, it was everything it stood for, and reminded me of. Reminders of places visited? Maybe. More particularly, a reminder of the surprising grace of God which burst in on our lives when we needed it most.

In Spring 2013, I became seriously unwell while working in Australia. I was there alone, and my whole trip had been carefully planned out. Everything went *wrong* though. Or perhaps I should say everything went RIGHT. I’m learning to be grateful for those occasions when God throws all our carefully crafted plans up in the air, and allows the fragments to fall where they will. Those times are gracious interventions that we could never manufacture, but they are absolutely vital to our spiritual health and growth.

Back in the U.K. I was in the early stages of treatment for Pulmonary Sarcoidosis, a chronic lung condition not dissimilar to lung cancer. Happily, sarcoidosis isn’t life-threatening, but it does leave the sufferer with shortness of breath and crushing fatigue. The standard treatment is high doses of prednisolone, which I’ve written about elsewhere. It’s a powerful steroid that can mess with your head. It certainly disturbed the balance of mine.

I was discovered collapsed in an underground car park in Brisbane city centre, and taken immediately to the Royal Brisbane and Women’s Hospital (I never did find out why it’s called that) where I was to stay for a whole month. Aside from the fact that my sarcoidosis was flaring, the drugs had prompted a steroid induced psychosis, which isn’t great, especially when you’re alone in a country far from home. Amazingly, when I collapsed I happened to have my British passport in my top shirt pocket, which made life really easy for those who found me. Val was contacted and it wasn’t long before she was on a flight to come to my side. I’ll leave Val to reflect elsewhere about God’s gracious provision for her in that mercy-trip to the other side of the world. For now, back to the cap.

We were married in 1983, which means that 2013, was to be our 30th wedding anniversary. It was one of the reasons for choosing that year in which to have a sabbatical. We were going to spend unhurried time together travelling and celebrating God’s goodness to us over the previous three decades. I’d travelled ahead to Brisbane in order to attend a conference on the Redland Peninsula along with ministry friends that we’ve made over the years of our many visits to that “Great Southland”. Needless to say, I never got to the conference.

It was always planned that Val would eventually travel out to join me. I had organised a surprise celebration cruise from Sydney around the South Pacific, which would take in the date of our anniversary, 6th May. All of these carefully crafted plans were now seriously threatened by my unscheduled visit to hospital. I feared that the much anticipated cruise would never take place, and I couldn’t understand why God would do that.

It was some time before the staff on my hospital ward would even allow me to leave the ward unaccompanied. Initially, I was granted leave of absence for an hour at a time. The logic of this strategy, was that patients were to gradually earn the trust of staff, and that was achieved by always returning on time. You can imagine my alarm then, when on Sunday 31 March 2013, which was Easter Day, I got ensnared (yes, really) in a hospital chapel service to mark the big day. I’d been going to the chapel early in the morning to play the organ when no-one else was there. So it was that early on Easter Day I found myself playing “Thine be the glory” full-pelt on the chapel organ, when the presiding chaplain walked in. A conversation followed, and he persuaded me to stay and play for the service. They didn’t have any other musicians, and he liked what he heard. I protested that I simply HAD to be back on the ward by a certain time. Despite this, he seemed blissfully unaware of the seriousness of my predicament, and said he would make it right with the ward staff in question if there was a problem. Needless to say, the service over-ran. No surprises there, then. After all, it was Easter Day and the service had included communion. And I couldn’t just get up and leave. Inadvertently I was now “on-staff” as the resident organist, and the place was packed. I couldn’t just get up and leave before the final hymn. When, finally, I was able to get away it was almost an hour after the time of my expected return. I reminded the chaplain of his promise to contact the ward staff. He promised he would, but he had to rush off immediately to take another service, so he’d do it later. My blood ran cold. I had a few short weeks left to prove that I was getting better so that the hospital would release me. Only if they released me could Val and I could resume our anniversary cruise plans. And now all that was under threat, because of an Easter Service. Not for the first time I slipped into resenting the very institution that God has called me to serve.

As fast as anyone with a breathing condition could, I rushed through the miles of hospital corridors (the walk took at least 20 minutes at a reasonable pace) in order to return to the ward. When I finally pressed the buzzer for access, the night staff had left, and the day staff had taken over. There was a red marker against my name, and they knew nothing of my early morning trips to the chapel. I tried to explain, but when you’re being detained against your will in a mental hospital because the balance of your mind is disturbed, protestations of innocence and rationality don’t really cut it. And the matron in question was a 20 stone Kiwi who’d seen it all before. I was close to tears. “PLEASE speak to the chaplain”, I begged her. She appeared completely unmoved. In the end, I retreated to the wired-in balcony and stared out across the hospital helipad to the skyscrapers of the CBD beyond. The myriad Kookaburras and Lorikeets were no consolation, and even the 30 degree heat, usually a source of delight for me, was no compensation whatsoever. I was desolate.

But I did get released. First for a trial weekend, to make sure Val was happy to have responsibility for me, and that I wasn’t too much of a handful for her. That trial weekend was a tonic. We walked hand-in-hand along the oceanfront near the first-line apartment we’d (miraculously) been given free of charge for the duration of my recovery. We allowed ourselves to begin to hope that our cruise might still take place. But then, all too soon, it was back to rigours and routines of hospital life, and the utter frustration of knowing deep down that I was safe to be released, but the professionals didn’t trust me. Of all the trials of that difficult period, it was coming face-to-face with my fundamental untrustworthiness that almost destroyed me. I’ve built my ministry on being a man of integrity. A “safe pair of hands” as they say. Someone whose word is can be relied on absolutely. Now, all that was gone. I was just another “crack-pot” locked up for his own good and the safety of others. Thank God it happened in Australia and not in the U.K. I’m not sure I would ever have recovered had it all taken place nearer to home. Finally, three weeks into that long April, the medics decided I could be safely released for care in the community, and, yes, they conceded it was probably a good idea that we resumed our plans to go on the 10-day cruise we had planned. It would do me good. When I heard those words, I was quietly ecstatic. QUIETLY you understand. I couldn’t risk them reneging on the deal and locking me up again. When Val and I were finally in the car alone together, and at a safe distance from the hospital, my unbridled joy turned to uncontrollable weeping. The relief was too wonderful for words. And I was reunited with my darling. And we were bound for Sydney and the South Pacific beyond.

Sailing out of Sydney harbour at sunset should be on everyone’s “bucket list”. We’d never cruised before. In fact, I had always resisted the idea, despite the encouragement of friends to give it a go. The idea of being cooped up on a floating hotel where you couldn’t escape, was actually my idea of a nightmare. I like my own space and cherish anonymity when away. What on earth did I think I was doing by subjecting myself to THIS? But I was surprised. We found quiet corners of the ship, where we were able to sit and read and watch the ocean slip by. We loved arriving in new places and not having to move our luggage. We even conducted a worship service for the passengers on the Sunday. Mmm. Still not entirely sure how that happened, nor whether it was actually such a good idea, but those who attended seemed to be blessed more despite me than because of me, I’m sure. As a photographer, my senses were constantly assaulted by beautiful vistas. I still haven’t sorted out the thousands of images I took. And, one of my other great loves, good food, was in huge abundance. Not such a good thing when I was pumped full of pills that increased my appetite. I still shudder at the photos. But we were on holiday. And God had sustained us through thirty years of marriage. There was much to celebrate.

So it was that we entered the waters of the Y-shaped archipelago of over 80 beautiful tropical islands known as Vanuatu. Although the ship was small by cruising standards, she was still much too big to dock on most of the island quaysides. Instead, we anchored away from the shoreline and were tendered in to explore.

The island in question, amazingly, was called “Espirtu Santo”. The largest island in Vanuatu, it is literally translated “Holy Spirit”. And, would you believe it, we landed at Champagne Bay. You couldn’t make it up. It was the week of our 30th wedding anniversary, and here we were, deep in the South Pacific having been released only days beforehand from a high security mental health hospital, wading ashore at an idyllic village called “Champagne Bay” on an Island named “Holy Spirit”. Whoah! Were we in for an amazing day! As we stepped into the warm silty sand, we could never have anticipated what God was about to do.

Not soon after landing, most of the cruise passengers headed either for the many tourist stalls dotted along the sands, or the queued for taxis to go off and explore the rest of the island. We stood in the melee for a moment, a little bemused I have to say, as we tried to work out what to do. It was then that a young man approached us. Me, full, as I’ve said, of more medication than I care to recall, was rather more gregarious that my naturally introvert nature would ordinarily allow. “Oh!” said me, “we’re pastors from England, and this is our wedding anniversary cruise!” Val and I detected a flicker of excitement in his eyes, and then he said, without hesitation, “you must come and meet my uncle.” Continuing to be completely unencumbered by my usual reserve and caution, I clambered into this lad’s beaten up old car without thinking twice. To make matters worse, I couldn’t quite understand why my long-suffering wife was looking hesitant. But bless her, Val followed dutifully, though I subsequently learnt that she was praying fervently that we weren’t about to be hijacked and held to ransom. As this young lad took off down semi dirt roads at break-neck speeds, he was talking ten to the dozen, clearly very excited indeed to have captured two British church ministers. His uncle, he told us, was also a pastor, and we simply HAD to meet him. The whole extended family lived deep in the jungle bush, but it wouldn’t take too long to get there. I enquired how long the journey might be, conscious that our cruise liner had given us a firm time for departure, warning us in no uncertain terms that should we miss the time then they wouldn’t wait and we would have to find our own way back to Sydney. “Oh, don’t worry. Everything will be good” he said. And with that scant assurance, I started praying too.

Eventually we reached a clearing with a few bamboo huts. Yes, REALLY. Just like you see in the movies. Real people were living in this island paradise in primitive homes, and they were truly excited to see us and meet us. It wasn’t long before we were surrounded by women and children, all of them beautiful, chatting to us animatedly in their pidgin English. Eventually the pastor was found. His name was Pastor Elvis, as it happened. It turned out that our teenage taxi driver was his nephew, and despite the veneer of remote village primitivity, Elvis had been forewarned about our imminent arrival by mobile phone. We were invited to sit on the floor of his home, and introduced to his wife and children. A guitar was produced and handed to me. Please lead us in worship, he said. So, trying to think on my feet, I decided on something I regarded as “safe”. Ever the pastor. Surely these remote people will know “How Great Thou Art” I concluded. We warbled through the ancient hymn with as much gusto as the heat and humidity would allow. Then I gave the instrument back to Elvis and asked him to lead us, whereupon he launched enthusiastically and capably into a medley of the latest Hillsong offerings. That put me in my place. I didn’t want the guitar after that. But it was wonderful. Here we were, thousands of miles from home, in the most remote of communities, with believers we were unlikely ever to meet again this side of glory, worshipping the One True God from our hearts, in the power of the Spirit, on an Island named “Holy Spirit”. It was truly a foretaste of heaven.

After the impromptu worship time, we were asked if we would like anything to eat. If you know anything about cruising, you will realise that there is no shortage of food onboard. We spent ten days without ever having the luxury of working up an appetite, so constantly full were we. But we didn’t refuse, of course we didn’t. Before long the most sumptuous platter of tropical fruit appeared, and it wasn’t long before rich sticky juices were running down our chins and onto our garments. What a privilege it was to “break bread” with these brothers and sisters in Jesus.

Pastor Elvis told us something of his ministry in the village and surrounding area. Then he took us off deep into the bush. We wondered exactly where he was taking us. Even then, having gotten to know him a little, it still crossed my mind that there might just be a humungous cooking pot hidden away somewhere and we were destined to be tonight’s culinary delicacy. We needn’t have worried. Elvis just wanted to show us his church building. It had been completed just a few years previously, and we realised we were almost certainly the first international visitors he had received, or was likely ever to receive. It was all desperately humbling.

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It won’t surprise you that throughout this obviously God-ordained visit, Val and I were glancing at our watches, trying to remember exactly HOW LONG it had taken Pastor Elvis’s nephew to drive us from the beach to his village. We simply HAD to get back, and we couldn’t afford to miss the ship. To do so would have meant helicopter rides, additional visas, and all manner of costs that our hosts couldn’t possibly imagine, and we hadn’t budgeted for. Needless to say, these dear friends were not in the slightest bit concerned. If we missed the ship, they figured we would just have stayed with them until the next one came along. Never mind about our scheduled flights from Sydney to the Sunshine Coast in Queensland, and then eventually from Brisbane to Heathrow via Dubai. They didn’t worry about such details. Why would they?

As it happened, we needn’t have worried either. We got back in time. In good time, as it happened. Time enough to visit those beach stalls. Time enough to purchase a Vanuatu cap. One that I’ve cherished ever since.

So, when we were down at Sandbanks beach this morning and my darling said: “you are going to HAVE to throw that hat away”, I didn’t respond favourably. It’s far too precious for that. Over the years that hat has taken a real battering. I’ve worn it endlessly. It ended up in Poole Harbour on one occasion when friends were showing us just how fast their speed boat could go. Oh, sorry about your hat, they said. Clearly they thought I’d just let it go and get another. Oh no. We had to circle back and fish around with a boat hook until the much-beloved item had been retrieved from the salty water. Much the same thing happened in the Mediterranean. We were on the greek island of Samos as ministry leaders for Richmond Holidays, and I lost my cap in a rather foolhardy and unsightly attempt at windsurfing. Once again, there was a full-scale search and rescue operation until that which was lost was eventually found.

The cap has been repaired repeatedly. My darling wife has stitched in a new lining, a new peak, a new crown. In fact, there isn’t much left of the original article except the badge. But it’s still my Vanuatu cap, and it will always remind me of Pastor Elvis. It speaks to me of his unfailing faithfulness to his calling and the Gospel. Of his beautiful family and the wonderful church community for which he selflessly nurtured and cared.

The cap is literally falling apart at the seams now. There’s no remnants left to which any new cloth might be affixed. It really has come to the end of its life. I won’t be wearing it anymore. But I won’t be throwing it away either. I’m framing that cap. And it will have pride of place on the wall of my study. Just another reminder of the grace of God. His perfect timing, and the miraculous way he puts us human beings back together.