Gone Fishing is an extract from the book, 'The Maverick's Roundup 
by Gwenneth Leane.  The book can be bought from WWW.kmlpublishing.com  

'Tell you what,’ said George, grinning like the proverbial Cheshire, ‘change places with me and use my line.’

So we changed places and I took his line.  Zero fish! His bag was full. He caught fish like there was no tomorrow. I came home with a bag full of fish that I hadn’t caught – they had all got away. No, they never even nibbled my bait. It was George who had caught enough for him and me both.

One Sunday morning when we arrived for church, George ducked out of the shack, (George was a bean-pole of a man, but the shack had not been built for tall people).
‘Come with me,’ he pointed with his thumb over his shoulder, ‘got something to show you.’

I followed, mystified as to what George wanted to show me. He busily pulled in a heavy line; on the end was a 60 pound Murray cod. The biggest fish I’d ever seen. Wow! Did that fish have a mouth.

‘Got this one tethered until the cod season opens on Monday,’ he confided proudly. He dropped the line and the fish disappeared into the muddy water.

One Saturday afternoon Frank and I decided to take a few hours off from work and go fishing with our families. The worms had taken time off as well and we couldn’t find any.  Frog hunting under stones and bark didn’t find them at home either.  Eventually, we found a log just below the Berri pumping station from which to fish.  We threw in our lines and sat down to wait and wait and wait…  Coming up river in a row boat, we recognized George.

‘How you getting on boys, getting any fish?’ he called out.

‘Nay! A few bites that’s all,’ Frank had to admit. George shipped his oars, he rowed his boat facing frontward not backward as white people do, grabbed a big callop out of the boat, hit it on the head with a shifting wrench and threw it to Frank.
​‘Here’s one for dinner,’ he chuckled.
​
‘No, no,’ Frank objected, ‘we can’t take your fish, you want to sell them.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ve got plenty,’ and George pulls up what he calls a pond made of wire netting. It was full of fish. ‘I’ve got another one of these down there by that log.’
My life of fishing ended there and then. It seemed more sense to do what I was good at, fishing for men.  The fish and I now RIP

​

​THE MAVERICKS ROUNDUP
by Bruce Leane & Gwenneth Leane
An excerpt
FISHING WITH GEORGE

​George Karpany was the fisherman to beat all fishermen. I had never seen anyone catch fish like he could.

‘Bruce, come around Saturday morning and I will take you fishing,’ George issued an invitation to me.

‘I don’t know, George, I’m not a fisherman.’ I was very doubtful about the expedition although I knew I’d enjoy George’s company.

‘Come on, we’ll go out in my boat,’ George was grinning as if he had a secret weapon.

‘OK. I’ll come.’

George dropped anchor just off some willows growing along the riverbank at Berri.  We threw in our lines. George hauled fish in hand over fist. I hauled in zero hand over fist.

‘Try my bait,’ George teased. Not a bite.

‘Hey, you should have used more black shoe polish before you came out,’ George was enjoying himself at my discomfort.  Zero fish!
 
 Tell you what,’ said George, grinning like the proverbial Cheshire, ‘change places with me and use my line.’

So we changed places and I took his line.  Zero fish! His bag was full. He caught fish like there was no tomorrow. I came home with a bag full of fish that I hadn’t caught – they had all got away. No, they never even nibbled my bait. It was George who had caught enough for him and me both.

One Sunday morning when we arrived for church, George ducked out of the shack, (George was a bean-pole of a man, but the shack had not been built for tall people).
‘Come with me,’ he pointed with his thumb over his shoulder, ‘got something to show you.’

I followed, mystified as to what George wanted to show me. He busily pulled in a heavy line; on the end was a 60 pound Murray cod. The biggest fish I’d ever seen. Wow! Did that fish have a mouth.

‘Got this one tethered until the cod season opens on Monday,’ he confided proudly. He dropped the line and the fish disappeared into the muddy water.

One Saturday afternoon Frank and I decided to take a few hours off from work and go fishing with our families. The worms had taken time off as well and we couldn’t find any.  Frog hunting under stones and bark didn’t find them at home either.  Eventually, we found a log just below the Berri pumping station from which to fish.  We threw in our lines and sat down to wait and wait and wait…  Coming up river in a row boat, we recognized George.

‘How you getting on boys, getting any fish?’ he called out.

‘Nay! A few bites that’s all,’ Frank had to admit. George shipped his oars, he rowed his boat facing frontward not backward as white people do, grabbed a big callop out of the boat, hit it on the head with a shifting wrench and threw it to Frank.
‘Here’s one for dinner,’ he chuckled.

‘No, no,’ Frank objected, ‘we can’t take your fish, you want to sell them.’

‘Don’t worry, I’ve got plenty,’ and George pulls up what he calls a pond made of wire netting. It was full of fish. ‘I’ve got another one of these down there by that log.’

My life of fishing ended there and then. It seemed more sense to do what I was good at, fishing for men.  The fish and I now RIP.
​
 The book,  The Mavericks Roundup can be bought at KML Publishing. See address on the Home page.

​Mum invented recycling and innovation. Mat-making was one of her specialities. She would collect the binder-twine used to tie the hay into stooks and crochet it into mats. The mats made for the dining room and bedrooms were of a much higher standard. I don't remember Mum ever buying hessian; instead, she would see what was available in the shed. A design would be drawn on the hessian, the colour scheme chosen. Old clothes dyed. Mum then cut the material into inch wide strips and, with a large crochet hook, loop the strips through the hessian. When finished, she would then trim off the coils and ends evenly, the results a beautiful soft carpet or mat. Mum spent the long winter evenings working on her mats; even wet days were filled in hooking rugs. The floors were covered with these lovely mats.

​The flash of revelation showed me I was harrying God for what I already had, Christ in me in all his fullness. My pestering was based on the fact that because I didn't feel Christ in me, I felt as guilty as sin, then Christ was not indwelling me, and I must strive to do better to live as I should.

We are advised many times to not trust our feelings; instead, to trust God's word when he says he has 'chosen us to be his very own.' He decided, 'to make us holy in his eyes, without a single fault, we who stand before him covered with his love.' (Eph 1 4-6) Regardless of what we feel, can we accept what God through Jesus has given to us and what he has made us? Can we believe accept and what God has given us? And not continue to nag?
A great scripture from Colossians Chapt 2, 'then he gave you a share in the very life of Christ, for he forgave all your sins, and blotted out the charges proved against you… He took this list of sins and destroyed it by nailing it to Christ's cross.'
Nagging is a thing of the past. I'm thanking the Lord for what he has given me and praying with Paul the apostle, 'that our hearts be flooded with light so that we can see something of the future he has called us to share.' (Eph 1: 18 LB)

A   LEMON

It should have been a piece of cake. 
​
The poems and images were collected and scanned into the computer. Alas, they were the wrong orientation. I changed to landscape. I cut and pasted; some of the poems needed to be back to front.  More time spent in retyping into landscape orientation and rearranging images.  Some of the images wouldn’t print off. I hunted through my photos, searched the internet for free images. Week one.

I sent a copy to the printer, ‘No’, he said, ‘we need the files to be in PDF.’  I searched my computer for the PDF conversion; I did have one, oh, there was an upgrade and the PDF file was never put back.  I’ll down load a free file but it wouldn’t down load, an error. Not to be beaten, I emailed my computer whizz friend, could she send me a copy of her file?  Then I had to ask how to use it.  Week 2 had passed.

 All the poems were now in PDF and set out in correct order. With the images, bio’s and contents page set to go.  Back to the printer, ‘No, these files aren’t right. You need them to be this way. We could do the files for you but it will cost you.’  I despaired.  I knew I could not create the files needed to print the book. Back to my computer whizz,’ can you help me?’  Week three

A new cover design, new images; can the images supplied by the authors be used in case of offence?  Day one, she sent me the layout of the book as it should look.  The printer contacted, were the files OK? 

I held the book, the unachievable achieved.  The awful fact; there were over 50 mistakes, lines were missed out,  The book was a lemon, but no, it was me that was the lemon for having the temerity to think I was a computer whizz.

I needed to humble myself. I needed to admit my limitations.  Having done penance I looked around, what next?

It occurred to me that God still loved me.  I had stuffed up big-time but his love for me never lessened. I was still his beloved child, the apple of his eye, my photo in his wallet. I didn’t deserve his love but he over looked that because of his unconditional love.
I occurred to me that I could remain a lemon or I could get up and be the sweet orange God had made me. I chose to be the sweet orange. I discarded the guilt trip. I could do that because God had declared in Romans 8: 1, ‘There is now no condemnation awaiting those who belong to Christ Jesus. For the power of the life-giving Spirit – and this power is mine through Christ Jesus – has freed me from the vicious circle of sin and death.’
​
The book was finally printed without error but I learnt a valuable lesson.  Being proud and thinking myself better than I was is not pleasing to God. I also learnt that God loves me beyond beyond, no matter what I do.  My standing with him is not performance based. Bless God.
 
 
 

RayHawkins is a man of action. lathe operator, church planter,
​missionary to Africa, writer, father of three.
published by Wombat Books,
​info@eenbeforepublishing.com

Letters to Anne is a 31 day devotional.  The bite sized truths are wrapped in daily experiences of the writer Gwenneth Leane
published by KMPublishing contact  and bought at authorkylieleane@gmail.com

OPPORTUNITY KNOCKS ONCE
by Maureen McQuillan, guest writer
 
​
God is always opening doors of opportunity.  Scripture speaks several times about this and you can rest assured that as this year progresses, we will see this happening around us.  We just need to recognize those doors and not be afraid to go through them, even when they appear in unusual ways.
 But…feel timid when incredible God-given opportunities arise?  Feel that you don’t have what it takes to go through such doors?  Here’s an encouraging personal testimony from Maureen McQuillan. Maureen used to feel so inhibited, inadequate, fearful and unable to communicate that she’d simply freeze and clam up if asked to do something that’d put her in the limelight!
 MAUREEN’S STORY
Maureen’s story: Decades ago I was given an unexpected ‘grand tour’ of Mount Gambier (SA) Television Station.  As we passed a live daytime talk show being televised, I paused to observe the proceedings.  Suddenly I heard that ‘quiet, still voice’ of the Spirit whisper to me, ‘One of these days you’ll be doing that.’
 It was a classic situation where you immediately shake your head and feel that it was nothing more than your imagination or wishful thinking.  
 I should have known better!  
 Twice more I was to hear that same quiet voice repeating those scary words to my spirit.  No way, I thought, I had neither the experience nor the desire to be on TV.
 Two months later my Adelaide company informed me on a Friday night that they had booked prime TV time for the following Monday morning.  With a very popular presenter, Maureen, and, by the way, you’ll be promoting our products.
 Who me?  Help!  Time to panic.  Time to reason with them that I’d never done any TV work before, that little me (and I am little!) couldn’t go live on TV, even for a short segment and certainly not at such short notice.  Then I heard again that becalming soft voice of the Spirit.  This time reminding me that he’d already prepared me for this moment by gently telling me in advance, that this was a door of opportunity, that all would be okay as I trusted him.  I immediately sensed an unusual peace within and agreed to go on.  
 Monday morning saw me seated opposite the show’s host and, even though no instructions about the director’s hand signals were given me, we were off and running.
 
FRIENDLY HELP
The Holy Spirit is our greatest friend and helper.  We can call on him for his wisdom, strength, and creativeness in all matters whether in spiritual, business, or general life.  I certainly did so in that TV situation and I was successful.  In fact, my weekly segment ran for four years on different stations.
 Here’s the thing…It’s impossible for me to fully relate how many difficulties stuck with me from childhood into adulthood.  I’m just a little person – the proverbial five foot nothing – and I greatly lacked confidence.  Can you imagine how it hit me when told to go on live TV and speak to hundreds of thousands of viewers?  Immediately frightening!  But knowing God was in it made the difference.  Knowing that he had arranged the opportunity gave me the confidence needed.
 The Holy Spirit already had a hold of my life and was now, even through secular means, proving to me how much boldness, confidence, and creativity he can give anyone who asks for his help.  Yes, I overcame the inadequacies in my life and was successful as I looked beyond myself and relied totally on him.  And it was all a preparation for the next step!
 Since that breakthrough God opened many spiritual doors for me, enabling me to confidently minister in the ‘limelight’ on my own.  I also assist Robert in effective ministry as we minister together at churches, camps, leadership sessions and conferences, even businesspeople sessions.  And especially in trusting the Holy Spirit for everything and boldly moving in his gifts, particularly the prophetic and words of knowledge and wisdom to bless the church and mentor ministers.
 
THE OPEN DOOR
 From both of us:  Whatever ‘effectual door’ (1 Cor. 16:9) God opens for each of us this year, we mustn’t let anything, anyone, any lie or any satanic deception hold us back from taking it.  If we do lack anything, we can ask the Holy Spirit for his assistance.  
 We encourage you all to recognize those doors of opportunity and boldly go through them!

BLOG by ROBERT WARMINGTON. guest writer
 
Robert Warmington was a young man searching for answers back in the 1960s.  He drifted into the Riverland and found more than he bargained for, he found, a new life.
 
 I worked on a lot of fruit blocks and farms to see what it was like and found it was too hard and not enough money.  I stopped for fuel at the Shell roadhouse Barmera S.A. early January 1965.  The Italian proprietors were very friendly.  The boss lady Renatta Mattachioni said, 'you lika spaghetta bolognaise, all you can eat - 4/6 pence (at the time).' For dessert, she said, 'you wanta the job picka the fruit?'. 
 
What an experience, I learnt fruit drying, pruning vines & trees, how to kill & dress sheep.  I Met many of farmworkers, Greek, German, Italian and Aussies; acquired a taste for rabbit skewered on a piece of fencing wire and cooked on an open fire.
 
I liked the upper Murray area, Berri, Barmera, Loxton, Renmark and last but not least Cobdogla. I obtained full board in a private home at Cobdogla.  The lady of the house was a Lutheran and invited me to attend Cobdogla Lutheran Church one Sunday.
 
The church Pastor Ivan Wittwer preached - one thing he said stayed in my mind, 'you are the salt of the earth if the salt losses its savour it is cast aside'.
 
Talk about friendly persuasion - once God's Holy Spirit starts to work on you, there is no going back.  God led me around like a bull with a ring in my nose; I had to have more of this stuff. 
I looked in the local paper one Saturday morning under Church notices, and read - Christian Revival Crusade, meeting at Berri C.W.A. Hall, 7.30 Sunday night, great singing, hear the Gospel preached and stay for free coffee. So off to Berri that night and sneaked up to the C.W.A. Hall, I found the hall by following the sound of the singing, you could hear it all over the Berri shopping area.  I peeked in the doorway to suss the place out; I'd heard they were a lot of weirdo's so wasn't taking any chances.
 
A bloke named Vince Hartwig grabbed me by the shirt and dragged me inside. I knew Vince and was astonished to see him here.  I said Vince, 'what the hell are you doing here?' (This wasn't the start of it all, it was purely the next step in the sequence of things).
 
Out the front of the room were two blokes in dark suits.  Vince said the bloke standing was called Cliff Beard; the bloke sitting down was Dudley Cooper.
 
Cliff Beard, I found out was running the show, but when he got up to speak, I realised this was no show, this bloke was fair dinkum.
 
Cliff preached as I'd never heard anyone preach before, so much so that at the end of the meeting I went up to him and I said I believe in what you are doing and want to help in any way I can.
 
Later, when everyone had gone home, we sat and talked in my car.  Cliff asked, 'are you a Christian and have you received the gift of the Holy Spirit?'
 
I said, 'I guess I am.' It was all very confusing, and I went home a troubled young man.  That night I woke up screaming and my roommate John Martin said it was pretty scary and he had hidden under the blankets.
 
The next morning the landlady said, what was all that noise last night, I think you should find somewhere else to live.
 
A few days later, I attended a house meeting at Bruce & Gwen Leane's place at Barmera.  I told Bruce what had happened; he seemed a bit baffled but rightly put it down to the work of the Holy Spirit, sorting me out.  These were heady days!  I could go on and on forever telling of the experiences good and evil.  Everything was new; my old world was passing away. I was a different person, what a life!
 
Teenarama came to Barmera.  I'd never seen anything like it in my life, young people dedicated to serving Christ, I wanted in.  When I think back on those days, I wish they had never ended. 
 
Cliff Beard went through life like a plough-shear on new ground. Cliff Beard’s beliefs were radical. People either loved him or hated him. The people who accepted what he preached became new people; some people were offended. Those people who received and believed Cliff’s Beard’s wholeheartedly discovered a new and abundant life.  I was one who believed and received a new life.  
If any man be in Christ, he is a new creation, old things have passed away, behold all things have become new. 

​On Nov. 18, 1995, Itzhak Perlman, the violinist, came on stage to give a concert at Avery Fisher Hall at Lincoln Centre in New York City. 
 
If you have ever been to a Perlman concert, you know that getting on stage is no small achievement for him. He was stricken with polio as a child, and so he has braces on both legs and walks with the aid of two crutches. To see him walk across the stage one step at a time, painfully and slowly, is an awesome sight. He walks painfully, yet majestically, until he reaches his chair. Then he sits down, slowly, puts his crutches on the floor, undoes the clasps on his legs, tucks one foot back and extends the other foot forward. Then he bends down and picks up the violin, puts it under his chin, nods to the conductor and proceeds to play. 
 
By now the audience is used to this ritual. They sit quietly while he makes his way across the stage to his chair. They remain reverently silent while he undoes the clasps on his legs. They wait until he is ready to play. 
 
But this time, something went wrong. Just as he finished the first few bars, one of the strings on his violin broke. You could hear it snap - it went off like gunfire across the room. There was no mistaking what that sound meant. There was no mistaking what he had to do. We figured that he would have to get up, put on the clasps again, pick up the crutches and limp his way off stage - to either find another violin or else find another string for this one. But he didn't. Instead, he waited a moment, closed his eyes and then signalled the conductor to begin again. 
 
The orchestra began, and he played from where he had left off. And he played with such passion and such power and such purity as they had never heard before. Of course, anyone knows that it is impossible to play a symphonic work with just three strings. I know that, and you know that, but that night Itzhak Perlman refused to know that. You could see him modulating, changing; re-composing the piece in his head. At one point, it sounded like he was de-tuning the strings to get new sounds from them that they had never made before. 
 
When he finished, there was an awesome silence in the room. And then people rose and cheered. There was an extraordinary outburst of applause from every corner of the auditorium. We were all on our feet, screaming and cheering; doing everything we could to show how much we appreciated what he had done. He smiled, wiped the sweat from this brow, raised his bow to quiet us, and then he said - not boastfully, but in a quiet, pensive, reverent tone - "You know, sometimes it is the artist's task to find out how much music you can still make with what you have left." 
 
What a powerful line that is. It has stayed in my mind ever since I heard it. And who knows? Perhaps that is the definition of life - not just for artists but for all of us. Here is a man who has prepared all his life to make music on a violin of four strings, who, all of a sudden, in the middle of a concert, finds himself with only three strings; so he makes music with three strings, and the music he made that night with just three strings was more beautiful, more sacred, more memorable, than any that he had ever made before, when he had four strings. 
 
So, perhaps our task in this shaky, fast-changing, bewildering world in which we live is to make music, at first with all that we have, and then, when that is no longer possible, to make music with what we have left.
 
 
Author unknown

   My great-grandson is turning two years old, and his Mum is planning a party. His Mum has favoured me with an invitation to attend. I have accepted it.
I look forward to the party with joy and thanksgiving that I am among the favoured few.
Remember, the birth of Jesus?  The angel appeared to Mary and said, ‘ Congratulations, favoured lady! The Lord is with you!’ (LB)  God favoured Mary above all other women.
God chose us  before the world began.  We are now the accepted, the beloved, the highly favoured.  God has poured out his favour upon us and invited us to a party.  God received us because Jesus gave himself to ensure that we are acceptable and highly favoured.
The Greek translation of being accepted in the beloved means we are ‘highly favoured’.  God so loves us he gave Jesus. God so loves us he can’t love us anymore. God so loves us he can’t love us any less. 
Jesus is God’s accepted beloved, and his death redeems us, so we become the highly favoured of the Father. The highly favoured accepted children of the Father through Jesus. For all this to become ours, we accept Jesus into our inner being. So that we no longer live for self but living for God.
Can we accept Jesus the highly favoured Son and take the Father’s invitation and become the highly favoured children of God? Can we admit we are at the pinnacle of God’s love?  We cannot go any higher nor any lower. We are at the zenith through Jesus. Let’s live at the top -  in the throne room.


​

(​An excerpt from the book, MAVERICK’S ROUNDUP)
NEW GIRL ON THE BLOCK
​
Girls, well, I had a couple of mild crushes on girls in the Christian Endeavour group. They did not last long living miles out of town with only a pushbike for transport across a mountain range was obstacle enough to kill off any budding romance. Dad was directional in trying to pair me up with suitable local girls.

 ‘Now, she is a pretty girl, Bruce,’ he would say, trying to direct my eyes toward certain girls in the district that he considered were pretty and would make a suitable wife.

 ‘She’s OK, I suppose,’ I would answer noncommittally.

‘You could do worse with that girl, Bruce. She’s smart and a hard worker.’ Dad would try to organise a meeting,

 ‘She doesn’t appeal to me.’ I would hedge, wishing Dad would let me choose my wife, myself. The annual Sunday school picnic arrived and it was always a lot of fun. If Dad was involved, the competitions and skylarking seemed to go on all day. This picnic was to be different. My lonely years were to end. We young men grouped ourselves at the gate of the paddock used as a picnic ground on the pretext of directing picnic goers to the right spot under a big gum tree. We were fooling around telling tall stories as lads do, when along came a young chick. She was a new comer to the district, living down Nangkita.