Blown Away

Pastor Mick Fleming

Description

Blown Away is the riveting autobiography of Pastor Mick Fleming, a hardened criminal called by God to become a Christian minister serving those in poverty, in a story of duplicity, forgiveness and redemption.
‘It’s impossible to visit Church on the Street and not be deeply moved by the work the organisation does for those in need. It is an extraordinary place . . .’ HRH THE PRINCE OF WALES, from the Foreword 

‘The Duke and Duchess of Cambridge wanted to visit Pastor Mick to offer support and understand more about the work that takes place in Church on the Street.’ ED THOMAS, BBC NEWS 

An autobiography that is fast-paced, stirring and a powerful testament to the love of God, Blown Away tells the story of Pastor Mick Fleming. 

No conventional clergyman, Pastor Mick led a life of crime and addiction before being called by God to become a Christian minister. Brutally raped as a child, he was about to confide in his parents when the dreadful news came that his sister had died of a sudden heart-attack. Mick didn’t cry again for 30 years, masking his pain with drink and drugs and working as notorious underworld fixer - until the day a revelation of faith unravelled his world, and he found himself utterly ‘blown away’. 

Here he relates his incredible journey from hardened criminal to discovering who he truly is in Christ; from helping to destroy lives through drug dealing, to helping others and saving lives through selflessly serving those in poverty. Laying bare his struggles in full for the first time, including a failed attempt at suicide, Pastor Mick tells how sharing his pain has helped others who are suffering. Since that first call that set him on the road to becoming a Christian minister he has seen miracles happen – including being able not only to forgive, but to help, the man who ruined his life. 

Blown Away is a thought-provoking and inspiring Christian autobiography that offers insight into the violent underworld of crime, addiction and substance abuse in the UK and reveals the extraordinary power of faith, forgiveness and redemption. Pastor Mick’s story will move and inspire you on your own faith journey, and offer hope to those struggling with addiction, grief and suffering. 

Told with raw honesty and full of warmth and humanity, Blown Away is an amazing example of how God can help those even in the darkest places.

List of plates xi

Foreword by HRH The Duke of Cambridge xiii

1 Fifty pence piece 1

2 Deal done 9

3 Ruby lips 17

4 Trio 31

5 Father Jimmy 45

6 The visitation 59

7 Mad Mick 77

8 ‘I want my mu . . . da . . . gra . . .’ 91

9 Jesus in a shop doorway 101

10 McDonald’s showdown 115

11 Posh cakes and deliverance 125

12 Tailor-made 139

13 McDonald’s revisited 151

14 Dropping off the merchandise 167

15 The phone call 187

Resources and further information 199

Sujets

• Religious
• Lettres et linguistique
• Biography
• Autobiography

Informations

• Publié par: SPCK
• Date de parution: 15 septembre 2022
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9780281086641
• Langue: English

Extrait

‘The Duke and Duchess of Cambridge wanted to visit Pastor Mick to offer support and understand more about the work that takes place in Church on the Street.’
Ed Thomas , BBC News
‘Mick Fleming’s story is at the same time both unbelievable and real. It reveals a man who was dreadfully wronged and guilty of many wrongs – yet miraculously found forgiveness and the ability to forgive. Liberated from bitterness and guilt, Mick’s response has been to do more good in one life time than a whole roomful of politicians. A gritty, gripping and moving book.’
Tim Farron , MP, leader of the Liberal Democrats, 2015–17
Bishop-elect Pastor Mick Fleming has a degree in theology from the University of Manchester and was ordained into The International Christian Church Network in March 2019. He is Pastor of Church on the Street in Burnley, a Christian community dedicated to helping others, particularly those who find themselves homeless, struggle with addictions, or are on the bread line.

For Kathleen and Gordon
Contents
List of plates
Foreword by HRH The Duke of Cambridge
1 Fifty pence piece
2 Deal done
3 Ruby lips
4 Trio
5 Father Jimmy
6 The visitation
7 Mad Mick
8 ‘I want my mu . . . da . . . gra . . .’
9 Jesus in a shop doorway
10 McDonald’s showdown
11 Posh cakes and deliverance
12 Tailor-made
13 McDonald’s revisited
14 Dropping off the merchandise
15 The phone call
Resources and further information
List of plates
1 Mick at around eighteen months, late 1960s
2 After celebrating his First Communion, early 1970s
3 On a family holiday (with sister Ann in red), mid 1970s
4 Mick aged 11, late 1970s
5 During his teenage years, early 1980s
6 Mick the family man, with his two eldest children, mid 1990s
7 Mick with his second wife and youngest son, Jack, 2001
8 Mum and Dad, early 2000s
9, 10 The Mad Mick years, c. 1990–2010
11, 12 Marrying Sarah, September 2020
13 Kathleen and Gordon, who took Mick in, with dummy copies of the book! Summer 2022
14 Mick with Dad and his two eldest sons, c. 2015
15 Graduating with a 2.1 in Theology from the University of Manchester, with daughter Elle, 2017
16 Mick, holding his ordination certificate, with Bishop Steven Lyn Evans, 2019
17 Burnley cobbles, 2020
18, 19, 20 Delivering food parcels during the pandemic, 2020
21 Night mission, 2020
22 Prayer on the street, 2020
23 With Father Alex Frost, holding the Sandford St Martin Trust trophy, awarded for the BBC’s coverage of the Burnley Crisis, 2021
24 The Royal visit to Church on the Street, January 2022
25 The Duke and Duchess of Cambridge with Deacon and his great-grandma
26 The Duchess and volunteers
27 The Duke greeting Sarah, Mick’s wife
28 Mick praying with the Duke and Duchess
Credits
Photographs 1–16: The family’s collection
Photographs 17–28: Phill Edwards – BBC
Foreword
It’s impossible to visit Church on the Street and not be deeply moved by the work the organisation does for those in need. It is an extraordinary place that has been an important refuge and place of safety for so many. Often, it is only by sharing our problems and being honest with ourselves that we are able to heal and overcome life’s challenges. And by doing so, we find just how deep the bonds we all share are.
HRH The Duke of Cambridge
July 2022
1
FIFTY PENCE PIECE

BUZZERS RINGING. DOORS OPENING. A dark feeling deep down in the pit of my stomach. Policeman on the left, policeman on the right.
As the voices echo down the corridors that smell of disinfectant, I feel invisible. They speak to one another, but I’m not there. Then the final door. And in. The smell, the view, and the nurse with the pearly white teeth and the ruby red lips, who smiles and says, ‘I’ll take it from here, officers. Come with me, Michael, you’ve got your own room. But the door will be left open all the time, and don’t worry, there’ll be someone sat on the chair outside.’
I’m led into a room that . . . the bedding matches the curtains, the cupboard, the bedside cabinet. An institution.
My mind swirls like a kaleidoscope, but the colours just fall into grey as I wonder how. How has it come to this? Where’s my rebellious streak? Where’s the fight, the resolve that I had deep down inside me? How could I let the policemen just walk me in? Only weeks ago, they’d have had no chance!
No more power, just a sense of despair. Sinking into the bed and feeling physically pinned there as fear consumes me. My throat begins to get sore and dry inside as I remember what happened.
Why? How? And what? The memories start to flood back, and I long to escape the truth.
But here we are. Big powerful man with his head bowed.
Lying on a bed in a psychiatric unit.
* * *
A bright, clear winter’s morning. I come running down the stairs, late again for school, of course, and my sister presses a shiny, bright fifty pence piece into my hand. I love her; she’s like a mother to me really. And a squeezy tight, ‘Don’t lose it!’ I run out the house. No chance of me getting the bus! Keep the money, that was always my way.
I’m meandering and running and jumping, counting the squares on the pavement as I dance to school. A little boy with glasses and sandy curly hair, joy in his heart.
And a shortcut. Jump over the little river instead of crossing the bridge, off through the park. A big smile, life’s good. I feel alive! I can smell, I can taste, I can hear.
Suddenly the sound switches off. Suddenly there’s an arm around my neck and the taste of a woollen jumper in my mouth and all my eyes can see is graffiti on the wall and peeling paint on a seat and . . . I’m engulfed in confusion, afraid to cry, my heart thudding and thudding fit to burst. A strange smell, a dark aroma of sweat and sweetness, mixed together and blended. A pouting voice, and pain, like none I’d ever known . . .
In the corner I can see a bottle. For years and years afterwards, I imagined picking it up and smashing him around the head! But I never did. I was too afraid.
Thrown to the floor. My glasses broken, my knees bleeding. I’d become a victim.
I’d been raped.
His hand squeezed my throat. ‘You speak a word of this, and I’ll come and kill your parents! Do you understand?’
As I pulled my trousers up, I couldn’t speak. But I looked at the face. I looked right into those eyes. I’d always remember that face. I’d carry it with me for a long time. No smile. Eyes of black. A tinge of alcohol on his breath. I’d never forget.
As I stumbled off, there were no colours any more. I couldn’t see the sun. I couldn’t smell or taste the air. It felt like my head had been plunged into a bucket of water. I sat in school, with everything going on around me and nothing going in.
Bleeding. Too afraid to even open my mouth.
‘Fleming! Stop daydreaming!’
As the teacher shouted and the children laughed, I’d no smile to give. No conversation to offer. Everything had changed. A darkness fell over me. And it wasn’t my choice.
I can’t remember walking home from school. But one thing I know is, I didn’t go that way. I took the other road.
As I looked down, I saw there was blood and a grazing to the palm of my hand in the shape of the fifty pence my sister had given me that morning – I must have squeezed it so tight. I’d remember later that Jesus character had holes in his hand. Well, so did I that day. But I also had one in my heart. And it wouldn’t mend in three days.
Getting home, finding my bedroom, lying on the bed. Looking up at the ceiling and the patterns on the wallpaper. Trying to distract myself from what I was feeling. The corner of the cupboard sent a little shadow across the wall that looked like a tree. I was longing to see things that were normal and real.
But my world was upside down.
I tried to cry, but no tears came. There was a sensation in the pit of my stomach that hadn’t been there before. Something that might be fear, but I wasn’t sure. I really felt I should have fought harder. That I’d let myself down.
Night-time fell. The streetlamp outside was bright and shone through my curtains. I usually loved the way it danced on the wall. But tonight it looked different. Tonight his face was in the light as it moved around. Tonight I could hear noises in the trees as the breeze blew outside, and I was scared. ‘I’ll kill ’em, if you tell anybody!’ echoed in my mind. I bit the pillow as hard as I could as the tears finally came, and for hours and hours I sobbed. But nobody heard my cries. Nobody was there to comfort me. I was alone.
A new day. I opened the curtains and looked out. The world was grey. Not blue. Not bright. A Saturday morning, the TV downstairs, the smell of bacon cooking, and me at the top of the stairs.
As I came down, the door opened. My dad. Stumbling, his face stricken, his voice cracking with emotion, and those awful, dreadful words that echoed round the house: ‘Your sister’s dead!’
Stunned silence. Then a sound I’ve heard many times over the years; a sound like no other in the world. The primeval scream of a mother who’s just lost a child. A sound of pure love and pure pain. It bounced off the walls and hit me like a body blow. And I knew. I could never speak of the day before. Sobs and wailing and cries, and this grown man, my dad – my hero – reduced to tears. But no room for me as he comforted his wife. No space for me.
I began the long walk back up the stairs, my legs so heavy . . .
Mum and Dad’s room. And there, Mum’s pain painkillers. The tablets she took so she could live a life with her back pain. Quick! A sachet. Back to my bedroom. A handful, swallowed. Lay down . . . And a calmness fell over me. I felt as if I was floating on a cloud. I felt angels had lifted me up on high! I could see colours again. I was safe; I was warm. As I lay there, the bed seemed to wrap itself around my body to comfort me. Maybe I’d found God! I just floated away. There was no pain. Reality had gone. I was at peace.
And then a terrible, terrible