Guide Me, O Thou Great Jehovah

Guide Me, O Thou Great Jehovah

On my pavement

Some time ago, one day while I was standing on the pavement outside our house working among the plants, something happened to me. It was such an unusual experience that it immediately caught my attention. I do not often listen to music, and I cannot sing, although I very much enjoy singing in our church on Sundays. I suppose that, with our gifted organist, my off-key voice disappears among all the other voices. I enjoy it.

But on that particular day — while I was working among the plants on the pavement—I began to sing, or perhaps merely hum, the hymn Guide Me, O Thou Great Jehovah. Then the words would disappear. Suddenly a few words would come back. No—I do not know the lyrics of the hymn at all. But that day! What was happening?

I carried on working with the plants. I took the long new shoots of the wisteria and the bougainvillea and wove them back among the older branches. My gardener also knows that he is not allowed to cut off these shoots; I will tell him very specifically when it may be pruned. The golden rule is to tie it back, because then it forms a wonderfully thick layer of branches and leaves.

And all the while the hymn kept turning over in my mind.

I hummed it and quietly murmured the words whenever they came to me. Otherwise, since I did not know the lyrics, I simply continued humming.

The hymn remained in my head. And on my lips. No — I did not get goosebumps or cold shivers. It was simply a strange occurrence taking place within me.

Can I remember the exact day on which it happened? I asked ChatGPT for the lyrics afterwards, and the date of that conversation was Saturday, 9 November 2024. It was an ordinary sunny day, and I was wearing my sunhat to protect my bald head from the harsh sunlight. No — I was not delirious or in some kind of trance.

According to the brief notes in my diary, I was alone at home that day.

Annemarié had gone to a masterclass for botanical artists.

Our gardener was not working that day.

In the meantime, I restored the seat of a small, half-sized Tulbagh chair that I had made years ago. The woven seat had broken, and I replaced it. The chair was in the garage while I waited for the wood glue to dry. So, it is clear that I was under no stress, nor was I rushed in any way.

My half-size Tulbach chair

I was calm.

Alone.

Standing on the pavement, weaving the branches and leaves back into place.

Was there anything special about that day? Certainly not.

Was there anything at all that might have triggered these words to surface? No, not that I can remember. Remember, it was not the complete hymn—only brief fragments of it. And, of course, the melody.

When I had finished working, I picked up my gardening gloves and my pruning shears and went inside for a cup of tea. Then the melody disappeared. Only the memory of the experience remained, gently nudging me and directing my thoughts throughout the rest of the day.

It was the very first time in my entire life that anything like this had ever happened to me.

To deepen the mystery even further, I do not attend an English-speaking church for regular worship. We do occasionally sing English hymns in church, but they are usually those short, repetitive charismatic choruses that are sung over and over and over again, almost mechanically.

I cannot even remember where or when I last heard Guide Me, O Thou Great Jehovah. At a concert? No—we seldom attend concerts. Welsh? No—that would be completely mistaken. I did not even know that the hymn had originally been written in Welsh by William Williams in 1745 under the title Arglwydd, arwain trwy'r anialwch.

Here is a link to the song: https://youtu.be/1jkzdhpbLiw?si=AZj_aYb97Mi7IttF

Here are the words:

Guide Me, O Thou Great Jehovah

Guide me, O Thou great Jehovah,

Pilgrim through this barren land;

I am weak, but Thou art mighty;

Hold me with Thy powerful hand.

Bread of heaven, Bread of heaven,

Feed me till I want no more;

Feed me till I want no more.

 

Open now the crystal fountain,

Whence the healing stream doth flow;

Let the fire and cloudy pillar

Lead me all my journey through.

Strong Deliverer, strong Deliverer,

Be Thou still my strength and shield;

Be Thou still my strength and shield.

 

When I tread the verge of Jordan,

Bid my anxious fears subside;

Death of death, and hell's destruction,

Land me safe on Canaan's side.

Songs of praises, songs of praises,

I will ever give to Thee;

I will ever give to Thee.

 

Please write me at neelscoertse@wirelessza.co.za

 

 

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ON A FARM AMONG VENERABLE OLD GIANTS

 

Adonsonia digitata - give your imagination wings

My wife and I spent a few days visiting a group of venerable old giants. Three, four, even five times a day I went to chat to them. I spoke to them, touched them, and told them that I simply could not understand.

They did not remain silent.

Every day they welcomed me with open trunks and luxuriant leaves, and they answered me. Their awe-inspiring, gigantic forms and quiet presence were, at every moment, their conversation with anyone willing to spend time listening.

Simply to be in their presence was an experience.

I, a human being barely 76 years old, standing before these giants — known as Adansonia digitata —was confronted by an overwhelming presence, and I found myself a bit uneasy. However, impressive humanity may be, these trees have stood here for centuries. They were already here at a time when Jan van Riebeeck was not even an infant.

Spend time with these giants - you will be rewarded. Don't rush in their presence - they can wait. 

André P. Brink, himself a giant of South African literature, writes of Kupido Kakkerlak (please read BIDSPRINKAAN) that there are certain people whose backgrounds are so eventful and so extraordinary that the best way to approach them is to sit quietly and let your imagination wander to places you have never been.

Well, I believe that Adansonia invites you to speculate freely, to dream, and to let your imagination run wild. However, you ought to be quiet when you are in the presence of a baobab tree—especially those on Glencoe Farm near Hoedspruit in Limpopo.

As you lean against the trunk of Adansonia, reflect on Psalm 1 in the Holy Scriptures. The description of a tree planted beside living waters may well strike you deeply. But be careful not to become captivated by that description alone.

There is so much more than meets the eye.

It is not the only tree worthy of admiration. Stretch your imagination and broaden your vision.

Just take time and look at trees

Look at trees.

Acacia trees.

Oak trees.

Peach trees.

Pride of India.

I even have a “pronksterttuitpeulboom” growing in my nursery, which I raised from a single seed.

Do you know what a “pronksterttuitpeulboom” looks like?

Not?

Neither do I.

I have no idea what it will eventually look like. Mine is only a one-year-old seedling. I have never seen one fully grown in real life, yet I am raising one.

As you look at my photographs, I want to ask you to give wings to your imagination. Step into the world of your imagination and tell yourself a bedtime story.

Another of our South African writers—also a giant—is Wilma Stockenström. She wrote the novel KREMETARTEKSPEDISIE, which was translated into English as EXPEDITION TO THE BAOBAB TREE (J. M. Coetzee, Nobel Laureate in Literature). I took my own copy with me and introduced it to the baobab trees on Glencoe Farm. They now know that Wilma captured their story in words.

Now, I invite you to look at the tree upon which Jesus Christ hung—suspended there by His hands and His feet with a stately crown of thorns from a thorn tree. Reflect on why He did so, and then write me a letter:

neelscoertse@wirelessza.co.za](mailto:neelscoertse@wirelessza.co.za

 

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Egyptian Coptic Church, Johannesburg inside - photo Neels Coertse

 Please take a look at my character study of Fr. Takla, monk of the above Church that was brutally slaughtered with two other monks at the Monastery at Cullinan March 2026.

Neels Coertse with Fr. Takla at the Coptic Cathedral Johannesburg 2023

I do attend at times the criminal trial in the Palace of Justice, Pretoria. 

I will keep you up to date with what is happening.

Please write me a letter at neelscoertse@wirelessza.co.za

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EARLY MORNING: MIDNIGHT DRAGONS STARING AT ME FROM THE DARKNESS

 EARLY MORNING: MIDNIGHT DRAGONS STARING AT ME FROM THE DARKNESS

Sketch of my right foot - I injured it when I was about 4 or 5 years old and the scar is still visible

EARLY MORNING: MIDNIGHT DRAGONS STARING AT ME FROM THE DARKNESS

The midnights dragons were staring at me from the darkness of the night. I looked at them. I decided the best way to confront them, was to get up and stand on my feet. Then I went outside to my shower room and have a shower. They don't have a leg to stand on when I am showering. 

I showered with the most wonderfully hot water running down my back as I stand with my head against the stone wall. The warm water flows over my back while I wash my body, and each toe individually. It is an unhurried process. The warm water runs over my body and down the drain. Foam. The scent of the shampoo. A clean body. My beard washed thoroughly.

Thoroughly rinsed.

Drying off.

Each toe.

The foot.

The ankles.

Left leg.

Right leg.

Left arm.

Right arm.

Face.

A bald head with little or almost no hair.

The beard. Shaving: the left side. The right side. Under the chin. Between the lower lip and the edge of the beard. Drying off.

Applying skin cream.

And I look at my feet: 76 years and a few months old.

And my hands. Just as old.

Thank You Lord God for that.

Sketches of my hand

They have carried me to many places: murder scenes. Theft cases (shoplifting). Abortions. Weddings. Divorces. Births. Prisons. Death-row cells in Pretoria. Church services. Baptisms. Prayer gatherings. Libraries: the Vatican Library. Court libraries. Friends. Family. Municipal libraries. Private libraries. Mostly my own library with my own familiar books—and quite a few that I still have to read.

Then, as I dry myself, I am grateful that I can dry each toe on my left foot and on my right foot individually.

The heels.

The soles of my feet.

The Achilles tendons.

The calves.

The kneecaps—each one—and grateful that they are in good working order.

The seven openings in my body that function well. During the flu, my nose worked particularly well.

The empty dishwasher

I am still exorcising the early morning demons.

Then I stand in front of our dishwasher. Grateful that I still have the eye-hand coordination to pick up each cup, each saucer, each teaspoon and tablespoon, each fork and knife. To place them on the tray, then walk around the corner and put each one back in its own designated place, knowing exactly what I am doing. And while I do this, I can still pray for my people—my people who read my blog. I do not know who you are.

Why do I think of you?

Why do I pray for you?

Just because? No. Not just because.

Because Jesus Christ encourages me in His Word to pray for everyone—and you are part of everyone.

Wherever you may be.

And you read my blog—thank you very much. The very least I can do is pray for you.

I have no idea who you are or what your personal circumstances may be.

There you are, and there is your connection with the God of Truth and the God who loves you.

If you feel so inclined, write to me at neelscoertse@wirelessza.co.za

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BEES BRING HOPE AND TIRELESSLY LABOUR IN CREATION

 

Painting by my wife, Annemarie Coertse

 This morning, I went to my "maternity ward" to make horse-manure compost tea. I use what is foul and smelly to bring new growth to my plants. As I filled three refuse bins with water to cover the dry horse manure, thinking about many things and praying for my people, I heard a sound directly above my head. And the sound kept buzzing.

BUZZ. BUZZ. BUZZ.

It was the sound of creation continuing its work of creation—that was my very first thought: creation was taking place here in my maternity ward. And I am privy to such a phenomenal drama.

Using horse manure to make compost tea is one thing; the buzzing was another.

Every now and then I stopped filling the bins with water just to listen.

Listen carefully.

Then I looked up at my neighbour's cypress tree peering over the garden wall.

I stood perfectly still.

Listening.

Watching.

Painting by my wife Annemarie Coertse

Then I saw how creation carries on: bees already circling, buzzing, diving and rising, diving and rising. Bees bring hope. They keep working regardless of what is happening around them; they know nothing of the Madlanga Commission.

I know it has been a very long time since I last worked on my blog. But when I heard how tirelessly creation carries on, I simply knew: this is the day I must write. The fact that I have not written anything for a long time does not mean I have done nothing. On the contrary, I have accomplished a great deal. Much of what I have been busy with will eventually find its way into my blog.

In particular, I have been reflecting deeply on my life of faith.

The painting of these bees was done by my wife, Annemarié, and she gave it to me as a gift to share with my readers.

I send you my greetings and prayers for God's blessing.

Please write to me: neelscoertse@wirelessza.co.za

    

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THE JOY OF TOUCHING MY BABY BAOBAB TREE

 

My two days old baobab

THE JOY OF TOUCHING MY BABY BAOBAB TREE

Have you ever touched a three-day old Baobab tree? Not? Me neither; except for this morning, touching my own little big-tree. I now battle to think law, to think about my “mob-justice” matters and murder and serial rapists and so on. How difficult to think on the ConCourt’s latest judgment on the doctrine of common purpose; ten judges sitting; five in favour and five against.

What is now on my mind?

My baby baobab. Two days old.

Or, for that matter, have you ever touched a sprouting Franschhoek Oak tree [that is in all probabilities an off-spring of the South African oaks growing in Delville Wood cemetery, that in turn hails from our flagship botanical garden in Capetown, Kirstenbosch; the oaks there, were originally brought from France to my country during the 1600’s] and now growing in Rivonia where Nelson Mandela was hiding at Liliesleaf; my Oaks at just on 2 years old are far too small for anybody to hide under or to sit in its shade; I have to sustain them otherwise … no, I don’t want to think about the ”otherwise.”

Or, have you ever touched a baby Mopani tree sprouting somewhere?

Or a baby impala lily tree?

What about a sambokpeul-tree? Well, I don’t even know what it looks like, yet I am growing it.

All of these “babies,” except the Oaks, are a couple of days old. The oaks are almost just on 2 years old and doing well.

I am not a botanist, nor an arborealist or a gardener of longstanding. In fact, I am at 74 years a very young gardener: I only started gardening with five vegetables [tomatoes, basil and something else] on the 1^st of January 2013. Later on, my gardener brought me five “Malawi-pumpkin seeds” that turned out to be ordinary butternuts and that, you can buy in abundance from your local grocer. The second lot were indeed from Malawi and I tended one that grew and grew and grew. During covid-19 lock down, I donated it to MES to make food for the street people: 15 kg pumpkin soup. Several others were averaging 7.5 kilos.

Then my sister, who lived in Wellington Western Cape passed on, and, on the way back from the funeral we stayed over at Franschhoek on a kind of a farm and that’s where I picked up the oak seeds.

My wife: “What are you doing?”

Me: “Picking up oaks.”

She: “What for?”

“To grow.”

“It grows slow and gets big.”

“I know.”

“The root system are huge and probably extremely invasive?”

“Yes.”

That was just more than two years ago and my five oaks are still babies standing on a home-made, tailor-made trestle-table for my maternity ward plants; during winter they lose their leaves, just like their big brothers and big sisters; come spring, they spring into life with new leaves just as their big brothers and sisters. The first seasonal change from summer to autumn, all their leaves fell off; I was heartily disappointed in myself; that was the definitive proof of me being a failure to grow oaks. My brother-in-law, put my mind at ease: “Don’t worry, that is what oak trees do in winter.”

Then we attended a 70^th birthday party and met other oldies having a whale of a time with weird and wonderful stories and using cell phone cameras sending WhatsApp images to their children in New Zealand [or other places] bragging that we oldies can have parties and we can enjoy it; eating ice-cream, drinking coffee or perhaps tea, some even had rooibos. Some oldies were sharing pills that were prescribed by their doctors, whom are the best in South Africa, and helped them a lot; “you should try it as well, my brother tried it and it was spot on, try it.”.

Thea, her husband Pierre was officiating at our mutual friend’s wedding 45 years ago, was telling me how she collects seeds; always collecting; always stopping her vehicle to get out and to harvest seeds; not only collecting but cultivating them at the retirement village, later on planting them out into the wild. She re-introduced trees that were extinct, on her brother-in-law’s farm; new life sprouted around these indigenous trees and wildlife is returning to where they belong.

She sent me three different seeds using a very unwilling, recalcitrant “courier” an ex-professor in geology who promptly lost the seeds. “Who does she think she is to use me as a courier? I’ve got better things to do” [yes, he is an expert on searching classical music on youtube]. Renosterkoffie-tree, huilboerboon-tree and pronksterttuitpeulboom-tree [on the list of threatened trees]. Undaunted, she couriered other seeds, using a willing and well-paid courier and three days later I got them: VanWykshout-tree, sambokpeul-tree, kremetart [Baobab], adenium lily [impala lily], koraal-tree, mopani tree and a snail vine tree.

Now, my baobab seeds are starting to sprout, and already my friends are worried about the space it is going to fill: “You obviously forgot it is going to be gigantic?” I think their worries are unfounded and definitely pre-mature. My baobab is only two days old. Have a heart. And when my tree is an adult, I won’t be here to tend it. When this tree is mature, nobody who is alive now, will be around to look after my tree. When it reaches old age, nobody for the next 400 – 450 years will be around. Stop worrying. In the meantime, I would ask somebody to look after my trees: “Please cultivate my trees with a long-term view of life and of trees.”

Let’s get back to the baobab. I touched the sprout this morning. I am an ordinary guy who is intrigued by this thing we call LIFE. Life is very simple: you either grow a baobab in your backyard [aka a maternity ward], or you don’t. Easy and simple.  

What is so strange about growing an acorn from Franschhoek?

Is it strange to grow a baobab in “captivity”? Goodness knows where the seeds came from originally. What matters now is that it is growing in Rivonia Johannesburg and it is in its pot in my maternity ward among my other plants. My neighbour is kind to me; his angel’s trumpets are crouching over the boundary wall, guarding over it with its bright yellow trumpets that last a day or so – then others get the opportunity to guard over the very young baobab.

Looking on at this lot, I am flooded with emotions: can it be true? Can it be real that I am growing this tree? I have seen very young upside-down-trees in Zambia who look like teens hanging around in Hyde Park, sporting an iPhone – trying to look and act as if he/she is an adult. When I was driving past them in a rental car on my way to Kariba Dam to see for myself the dam that the Late Queen Elizabeth II visited in the 60’s, I never had the faintest of an idea that many years later I would grow some [I am still waiting for four seeds to sprout].

The story of a baobab? Do you really expect me to tell you that? No, I am not going to, because I know that you, my reader, have already asked Prof G. O. Ogle for an expert opinion. Or, if you use chatgpt, it gives you more than you can chew. How to grow a baobab from seed? How to tend it? And lots more. These artificial intelligence guys will tell you that you should soak the seeds in hot water overnight [how do you keep the water hot?]; I haven’t because, so my reasoning goes, it does not happen in the veld, so why should I do it? My seeds love me for not soaking them.

My neighbours angels trumpets

At this point, I am just basking in the sunlight shining on my two baobab seedlings and my five Franschhoek acorns and on my impala lily and my Vanwykshout-trees and my sambokpeul-trees and others that are still labouring under the crust of the soil to break free to see the light. Walking this morning in my maternity ward, I was welcomed by my neighbours bright yellow angels trumpets voluntary. If you worry about me and my trees, for instance where to plant it, I am of the opinion that you are pre-mature. Or, if not premature, why don’t you think SMALL for a change? That is what the Japanese are doing for centuries: thinking small then you are really thinking big.

All of a sudden it makes sense, not so?

If you are suffering from being a left brain-cerebral-type-only, click on this link for starters:  https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Adansonia

Neels Coertse

Rivonia

Wednesday

23 October 2024

E-mail account: neelscoertse@wirelessza.co.za

 

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Week 22 SOUTH AFRICAN LITERATURE?

 

Hollow City

On our way back from Kirstenbosch Botanical Gardens in Capetown, I decided to concentrate on Afrikaans literature for at least the next 12 months – and this is in my mind a very broad concept. It includes translations from other languages into my mother tongue; and it includes literature that originated on this huge continent called Africa. And it includes legal literature.

And I am going for it. Having said that, I am also writing notes on my iPad of the literature I am reading.

Here is a list of literature I have compiled in the meantime:

1.   HOLLOW CITY by Tim Haynes and photographer David Edwards. I found it to be brutally honest, that is both the write-up and the images. Moving and disturbing all at the same time. This is my city that I know very well. When I was a young law-student at the erstwhile Rand Afrikaans University, I was doubling up as chauffer for the South African Airways [as it was then known] and as such I got to know this city and surrounds very intimately. And has changed but completely and it hard to say and even harder for me to admit that these changes were not for the better, in stead it has deteriorated dramatically and I have to admit, against my will, that it is murderous and rapacious den of vice. And there are still wonderful people in their trying their level best to improve life deep inside the city: people like Tim and Dave.

 

A Home on Vorster Street 

2.   A HOME ON VORSTER STREET deur Razina Theba. A very brave lady this. In light of her being of Indian origins, and South African, she writes with an honesty that is sobering and enlightening.It is appalling what happened to them and that it was meted out by a supposedly Christian Government of pre-1994. Her parents succeeded to raise their children fairly normal in abnormal circumstances – I salute them and I salute you.

 

3.   RACCONTEUR ROAD Shots into Africa by Obie Oberholzer; a photographic essay of my country. I take only five pages every now and again to read it and I read the photographs as well. How do I read a photograph? With my magnifying glass; then I take my time to scour it up and down and left to right and diagonally bottom left to top right and bottom right to top left – slowly and deliberately and just looking at the detail.

 

4.   VREEMDE STORIES UIT AFRIKA [Foreign Stories from Africa] by Johann Lemmer who live in the Groot Marico district. That is the habitat of Charles Herman Bosman – the doyen of the veld and stories of that area and era. Johann Lemmer was also a sculptor in his own right and I saw his sculpture of ANNA KROTOA.

 

5.   DINK VERDER [THINK AGAIN – a very loose translation] by Hibbe Van  Der Veen who lives in Kempton Park Gauteng. One thing is for sure and that is that he does not aspire to be awarded a Nobel Peace Prize for literature at all. He writes short “stories” and he just dots down his thoughts as and when it strikes him.

 

6.   Citizenship rights in Africa: http://citizenshiprightsafrica.org/

 

7.   The South African Government White Paper on International Migration:  http://www.dha.gov.za/WhitePaperonInternationalMigration-20170602.pdf

 

8.   GOD EN WETENSKAP EN ONS WAT GLO [GOD AND THE SCIENCES AND WHAT WE BELIEVE] by Prof. Isak Du Plessis. I’ve read it years ago and am due to read again.

 

9.   THE PROMISE by Damon Galgut the 2021 Booker Prize winner. It is due to be read again.

 

10.       A SHORT HISTORY OF SOUTH AFRICA by Gail Nattrass.

 

11.       COUNTRY OF MY SKULL by Antjie Krog. Due to be read again.

 

12.       NERVOUS  CONDITIONS by Tsitsi Dangarembga. Due to be read again.

  

13.       DIE MOOISTE MEISIE IN GENUA Ilja Leonard Pfeijfer translated by Advocate Fanie Olivier during 2019. I only purchased it yesterday [22 June 2023].

 

Kuier in 'n plaaskombuis

14.       KUIER IN 'N PLAASKOMBUIS resepte en stories van gister [Short visit to a farm kitchen, recipes of yesterday] by Nico MOOLMAN. He tells me that he wrote it for his children and then only afterwards started publishing it.

This list is not complete and I am working on it.

What do you read at the moment? And what do you intend to read for the next 12 months?

Please write me your story: neelscoertse@wirelessza.co.za

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