2 Chapter 2

My story begins in the Highlands, a place of immense beauty. Much like the garden of Eden

before the fall, my homeland witnesses powerfully

to God's love and creativity. Across the Highlands

and Islands should be the words Ceud Mile Failte,

which in Gaelic means "A hundred thousand

welcomes." Not because the people are welcoming,

though many are, but because God's creation

welcomes and even beckons you to come and see

the glories of his handiwork.

This is the land of the deer, the golden eagle,

Shetland ponies, sheep, Highland cattle, seals,

otters, and—once upon a time—wolves. It is the

land of great mountains, cliffs, and woodlands.

Inverness is the gateway to these beautiful

Highlands. Along the river that flows through the

town is the great Loch Ness. Where, according to

legend, Saint Columba sent a monster back into the

sea, praying it would never return.

At the other end of Inverness lay a small,

little-known village in a glen, near the famous river

Nairn. On one side of the river was Nairnshire and

the famous Cawdor Castle, whilst on the other was

Inverness-shire and beautiful Kilravock Castle, seat

of power for the diplomatic Clan Rose. It was on

Kilravock's side of the river that we had our

dwelling. Our village was between the Kilravock

estate and the village of Culloden. It consisted of a

few thatched-roofed black houses, some crofts, and

the ruin of an old broch, a circular Iron-Age

building of dry stone.

Legend has it that while on his way to help

found a church at Kilravock, Saint Columba passed

through Inverness and Nairnshire in the sixth

century and introduced the people to the Christian

faith. Before, they had gathered in places like Clava

Cairns near Culloden to practice traditional ancestor

worship. As this Celtic missionary from Ireland

journeyed through Scotland settling churches,

starting with one on the Isle of Iona, the gospel

spread and many became followers of Jesus. Our

wealthy neighbour's estate was named Kilravock, or

"Church on the Rock," for Saint Columba had

planted a church there long ago.

It was in this deeply spiritual landscape that

I sat on a rock watching over my Father's sheep on

a calm day in the spring of 1740. Many lambs

gambolled before me, and the nearby fields of gold

blew gently in the breeze.

All of a sudden, a great mist came down. I

began to shiver, and I wrapped myself in my coat of

sheep wool and covered my legs a little better with

my tartan kilt. A lone, dark figure caught my eye as

it emerged from the mist. At first I was unsure what

it was—until I realised it was Condon the recluse,

clutching his Tyndale Bible and with a sense of

determination walking toward me. I wondered what

he wanted as he sat down beside me on the rock.

"Do you know who I am?" he asked.

"Why, yes sir, I do."

"I'm Condon. Do not be afraid." He was a

tall thin man with a long black robe, much like a

priest, and he had no hair on his head, but a long

grey beard on his face.

"I'm not afraid, sir. I know that the villagers

like to gossip. I reckon, if you don't mind me

saying, that you are a kind old man, really."

Because of his radical views, some had begun to say

he was a witch or even worse. To me he was just a

kind man who had gone about doing good until his

radical faith in Jesus led him into conflict with most

of the established churches. The inevitable fallout

drove him to avoid crowded places and eventually

turned him into a recluse. Still, some of his strange

teachings reached us in whispers. He advocated that

all who follow Jesus are priests, not just the official

clergy.

Much of what he said made sense, as did hiskind manner

Much of what he said made sense, as did his

kind manner. But why was he here now? Had this

persecuted recluse emerged just to speak to me?

"Your name is Davy, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"It is a nice name, from the Hebrew,

meaning beloved. Do you know the story of David

from the Scriptures?"

"Yes, sir. I love it."

"Jesus is a descendant of David, the beloved

of God. Jesus is the only begotten Son of God who

was born into this world and died and rose again.

Saint John calls him the Word and the Light. When

he died, he did so as atonement for our sins, and

when he rose, he did so to defeat the power and

curse of death and hell on this once-holy world. Do

you believe in him?"

My heart warmed as I heard these truths

afresh, as did my wonder at his boldness in coming

out of hiding just to share the good news with me.

"I do, and have done a few years now. I found a

tract blowing in the wind once. It was a translation

of an article by someone called Menno Simons."

The old man looked as if he were about to

cry, but he held it back.

"I want to tell you something, Davy. You

will see many horrors in your life, of that I am sure.

But I want to encourage you that God loves you and

will never forsake you. He is not the author of war

and division. He did not send his Son as one to

steal, kill, or destroy. He sent him to give, to raise

up, and to restore."

I sat holding one of the lambs still in wonder

at this man's boldness and authority in the way he

spoke of things of God. I had never heard anyone

speak in this manner before.

He smiled a broad smile, and his eyes lit up

with joy. "How fitting that God chooses a shepherd

boy for this task . . ."

"What task?" I said, frowning.

"You are to be a light against the evils of

war. In great troubles God can bring to you great

joy, just as he did for Saint Paul and Silas when they

were in jail for the faith. You know that story?"

"Aye, is that the one where the early

Christians got arrested and then started singing in

the prison, and God opened the doors? Then the

guard was about to kill himself, fearing the harsh

punishment if his prisoners had escaped, but Paul

stopped him and then the guard joined the

Christians?"

"Yes, it is."

Condon smiled to himself, no doubt at the

fact that I was fairly well educated for a farm boy. I

had always loved to learn, and when a missionary

taught me to read, there was no stopping me.

Sometimes a travelling family, known to us only as

the pedlars, persecuted by many but loved by my

people, came to visit and sold books to my Father

for me to read. I loved the books, and judging by the

variety they carried, it was clear my travelling

friends had either been far or had the means to

acquire these lovely editions from those who had.

Where these wandering strangers had come from or

even where they went to was a great mystery and a

topic of lively debate at mealtimes. Some suggested

they were angels, which at the time I laughed at,

preferring the notion that they might be itinerant

ministers from further north or across the Irish Sea.

They certainly didn't have a local accent, that was

for sure.

Condon fixed his eyes on me, and his voice

lowered as though what he was about to say was

especially important. "Davy, I knew the exact time

of your birth and what you would look like when

the time was at hand, for I dream dreams. Now is

the time. A great evil is brewing in the land that will

turn the nation against itself. But you must make a

stand for what is right. Be strong, young man, be

strong."

"I don't understand . . ."

"You will."

With that, he stood and walked back into the

mist. Once he had gone the mist began to disappear,

and Condon was seen no more.