Working, Grieving, Enjoying

It has been good to be fruitfully busy again. Though it had bright spots, the summer was brutal. We bounced rootless from place to place, waiting for our visa to come through. We grieved, we worried, we argued.

Here in Belgium, ahh, we can finally settle down. We can finally work again. For a while I thought the sadness over Peter’s death was lessening. I realize it was only sinking deeper, like floodwaters dissipating into the ground. But the percolating sadness has filled a hidden reservoir of sorrow.

A young man here surprised me with his deep question last week: “What are you praying about?” I don’t tend verbalize a lot of prayers right now, I told him. When I come before God, when I am aware of God’s presence, I am also aware of Peter. Not that Peter is present, I am just aware of him and aware of my sadness. So to come before God means to grieve. I bring my sadness to the presence of God. Which is fine. It’s not that I have no comfort. It’s that sorrow is now a part of who I am. Sorrow is also a part of who God is. Jesus suffered. The Father grieved.

Several people here have shared how they can understand our sorrow. With good reason. One woman lost a profoundly handicapped teenage daughter. Some have suffered multiple miscarriages, never having children of their own. One person lost grandmother, father, and brother in a short span. We have met many immigrants and refugees. Some fled because of threats against their life. One young man lost his three brothers when they left their country with no plan but to search for a better life. He has heard nothing from them since the day they left. A short time later, he left too. When he arrived in Belgium he asked a doctor to help him commit suicide; life didn’t seem worth living. One man stopped believing when his brother was shot dead in his home country in the Middle East. These last ones all became Christians here in Belgium.

Last Sunday we baptized several new believers. In addition to the trauma they sought to escape by coming to Belgium, they have now been disowned by their families for following Christ. Someone told me, “I lost my family twice. First, when I left home. And again when I became a Christian.” And yet they say it is worth it. “The people of this church loved me when they didn’t even know me,” one said. “Jesus has given me peace,” said another.

We ache for our son Peter. All these others ache for their lost loved ones. All of this raises a profound question: What is life about? Children get cancer and die. Families run from violence. People die in random accidents. What matters in life? What mattered to my son Peter was the love of God. “Why would someone think that death would separate you from the love of God,” he said a couple weeks before he died. “Death is how you get to God’s presence.” The apostle Paul willingly faced persecution, prison, beatings, and death. What mattered to him was Christ. “To live is Christ; to die is gain,” he wrote (Philippians 1:21). Suffering helps you see that this is true. Nothing else really matter. Nothing else really lasts.

Okay, ready for something lighter? I am.

We have enjoyed our time here so far. We are just starting to venture out in exploration of our new country. I’ve got some pictures for you.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

Cycling here is much more fun – and safer! – than in California. There is always another park, another castle, another estate to find. The city is full of old buildings, bridges, tunnels, hidden courtyards, cathedrals, passages under things that look like the city’s old ramparts. And open air urinals hidden in the shadow of the city’s main landmark, the Cathedral of Our Lady (I almost included a picture).

Language learning is enjoyable, although frustratingly slow, even with a supposedly accelerated class. I succeeded in telling a store clerk tonight that I was looking for garbage bags. And I asked if they were really all out of bread. Those are my most recent successes. He had to ask three times if I wanted the receipt, though. Conversations with our very friendly neighbor are 50% failure.

I referred to the church council’s chairwoman as the stoelvrouw. Someone said, “Chair. Woman. That doesn’t work.” The same group had a good laugh about my retranslation of the Dutch word for a vest. In Dutch they call a vest a bodywarmer. I found this intriguing, because it’s a borrowed English word that isn’t used in English. Imagine saying, “Hold on a second, let me just put on my bodywarmer.” So I translated the word into Dutch (with a little help), lichaamsopwarmer, and they almost fell over laughing. That’s how it sounds in English!

Oh, I’ve learned some other interesting phrases. Mediageil means attention whore. Appropriate? I’m not sure. One night we were curious about how to say butt in Dutch. Katherine had learned one version from her friends at school, but we wanted to check. Google translate gave us the word kogelvanger. When I reversed it from Dutch to English, it said it means “bullet catcher.” I asked a Dutch friend and he said “Kogel. Bullet. Vanger. Catcher. I don’t know what that is.” Rebecca says it’s actually in the dictionary though. I posted on facebook about the glorious mistranslation of some math homework, thanks to Google translate. Here it is again.

A young man here has taught we a couple slang phrases. Banglijk, which literally means frightening, is like the slang use of “sick” or “cool” in the United States. I suppose “awesome” is more exact. “Mercikes” is a mash-up of French and Dutch. It still means “thanks.”

To all my readers, you’re banglijk! Mercikes.

Dutch-English bilingual people, how does this work? Vang je later!