My Parents, Ian and Wendy Hamilton.
Hearken, my son, to the discipline of your father, and do not forsake the instruction of your mother; for they are a wreath of grace for your head and a necklace for your neck.
Proverbs - Chapter 1 8-9
I grew up in New Zealand as the eldest child of Ian and Wendy Hamilton. Two people who REALLY believe in God. And not in a theoretically religious way either. More in the ‘Let’s inquire of the Lord regarding this problem and do what he suggests’, sort of way. I have three younger siblings. Rachel, Paul and John. We all ended up with biblical names because Mum and Dad couldn’t agree on what to call me. Apparently, their standard marital synergy experienced difficulties while awaiting my arrival. They took the naming of me quite seriously and loathed each other’s suggestions. Finally, my father hit on the bright idea of limiting the options to anything biblical. “In that case,” said my mother, “she’ll have to be a Ruth. She can’t be anything else. It’s the most beautiful story in the Bible.”
“Oh yes, it can’t be anything but Ruth,” agreed Dad.
I am very grateful they decided all this while I was still a tenant in Mum’s tummy. By all accounts, I was a spotty, flaming redhead of a baby with a cone shaped head. Had they said to one another, “Oh let’s just see what she looks like when she arrives,” I’d be in trouble.
Dad is a scientist and Mum is an artist. She’s also an author, but she wasn’t back then. I and my siblings were home-schooled. My parents were deeply distrustful of the Fabian state education that New Zealand was dishing up for free. They didn’t much like the look of the Christian schools either. So I and my siblings consumed an education that was idyllic. We lived in a 1920’s Californian redwood bungalow in the North of New Zealand. The house was full of books and we were often taken to the town library. My father’s book collection was so beautiful it was stored in pride of place in an enormous bookcase next to the fire. Everything was bound in leather, in deep hues of green, red and blue. Many of the spines were adorned with golden Hebrew and Greek letters. The insides were mainly English, but an English of such an incomprehensible nature, that the few attempts I made to read them quickly ended. Mum’s book collection was a great deal nicer. Mostly children’s novels from the 1920s. Her book collection wasn’t as aesthetically pleasing as Dad’s collection so it was hidden away in the attic. My parents lined the walls of the attic with book shelves. Then they attached a rustic ladder to an antique pulley and hinges so we could let the ladder down and climb into the attic whenever we felt like it. The chimney ran up through the floor and heated the space nicely. The floor was covered with Persian rugs and cushions.
Had I read Arabian Nights, I might have imagined I was in Aladdin’s cave of wonders. But no book with magic of any sort was ever welcome in our home. Deeply spiritual, in fact, rather mystical, my parents placed an emphasis on tangible connection to God that in retrospect was completely unique to them. I grew up in a religious community but even by those standards, my parents were odd. They were obsessed with gaining connection to God. They seldom spoke of our religion. But they never stopped speaking about our God and his book. My parents poured over the Bible daily, seeking ways of getting closer to God. They demonstrated continuously the power of prayer and the reality of miracles. If I had to sum up Ian and Wendy Hamilton’s creed of faith in one word, I would have to choose ‘loyalty.’ And loyalty does not mean dogmatism in doctrine. It means total dedication to hunting God out and finding out what he wants, and then doing it. My parents never, ever forced a belief system upon me. But who could ever escape believing in a Being as tangible as their God? My parents are my best friends. I wish every child on the earth could be raised by people as kind and wise as they are. It would solve a lot of problems.
