by JENNY McPHEE
CHRISTCHURCH — The first little miracle was that I was asked to fly to Auckland for a day at Pompallier House to meet the NZ Catholic team and Bishop Patrick Dunn [for a workshop
for contributors — Ed].
The second miracle was that I decided to go, having turned a very new 70 years, with a past travel phobia, with flying as its speciality.
Armed with my prayer group leader’s prayer that God would be there at any little difficulties, I set off. My computer was told “No” when it asked if I wanted to click the box to select my seat. A quick word to God. “Please select me the most suitable seat in the
plane.” Of course, this was in case the engines failed.
I asked the smiling JetStar lady to convert my email reference to a boarding pass. I calculated that would be quicker than trying those electronic machines that just knew I was from the era of phones fixed to the wall with a handle turned in a morse code manner.
Of course, this was only after lifting the handset and asking “Working?”, as the phones were on a party line shared with at least six other households.
Seated and pleased not to have the window seat to watch the ground whizzing past, I noticed the man in the next seat sketching good characters.Of course he was Steve, the NZ Catholic cartoonist heading for Pompallier House. God is good.
My day was exciting. Our hosts attentive and welcoming. The tour of the house, the Bishops
Chair, the vault that holds the original Treaty document, and rows of leatherbound books,
some from the 1700s, were intriguing.
I hoped someone was copying them electronically to preserve them.
I headed home with memories of the Sky Tower, a glimpse of the harbour, the totem poles in
the grounds where Maori visitors once stayed in raupo huts (now gone), sometimes for a week at a time.
Christchurch, cold dark and raining, bought me down to Earth, but God was still working
on little difficulties. A lovely man, who usually collected the trolleys, assured me he was going my way and would show me where the ticket machine was. Walking in the rain to the far end of the carpark was well beyond the call of duty.
My machine whisperer was not a car finder. That came with an airport phone, a warm, dry yellow truck with red stripes, and knowledge that, at 4.30am, long-term parks look like short
term ones.If you think “Big Brother” is not watching you, you’re wrong. A combination
of my ticket and, probably, a photo of my car entering, showed my number plate, and where the car was.
I could hardly believe that a few minutes reading the Australian Catholic magazine, with the interior light on while waiting for my KFC, would require angel number four — my husband
with jumper leads.
By now I was convinced that jumper leads to start a small Toyota Vitz from a large Toyota diesel would blow the bonnet off.
As my friend had asked, God was there at every little difficulty. I felt carried.
Thank you Lord.
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