Retreat in Ostend

4 and 1/2 min read

By the end of February, the murmurings of spring come around with a quickness that should no longer surprise or unnerve me. But it does. 

My counsellor invites me, for free, to a Christian weekend retreat for singles on the Belgian coast. I assume God really wants me there. I wouldn’t have had the disposable income for the trip otherwise.  

The only drawback is that I am obligated to share a room with a stranger. It’s a lottery. It’ll be hard to switch off completely not knowing the temperament of my roommate. On verra.

Despite the inauspicious weather forecast that weekend, it turns out to be mild enough to take walks along the sandy Ostend beach. To my pleasant surprise, the convention is booked at a lovely new-looking hotel, delectable meals included. The capacious shower facilities are almost the same size as the bedroom. There’s also a great view of the coast. The building is nevertheless so labyrinthine, that I never quite master the layout. It’s only at the end of my stay, for instance, that I discover I’ve been dining in the ‘wrong’ canteen.

I arrive at the retreat not in the most sociable mood. Perhaps the thought of bunking with an unknown is playing too much on my mind. I’ve also not come with the intention to hardcore socialise. I see this as akin to my previous experience of silent retreats; a break from the norm in the hope of spending sustained quality time with God. Furthermore, I’m still negotiating my roller-coaster morale. 

Between the seminars, I’m not interested in much chit-chat. Whilst I’ll somewhat regret being aloof at times, keeping to myself generally seems like the right call.

My counsellor, Sandrine serves as moderator. Having only recently married well into her 40s, she knows a thing or two about making the most of being single. I learn more about her in the first few minutes of the opening seminar than I have in the two years I’ve been her client. She’s a more confident and fluid public-speaker than I expect.

The attendees are also far more diverse than anticipated; in age, gender and ethnicity. (It’s not just a room full of black women over 35, then.) There’s one guest whom I can only suppose was coerced into coming. I notice him taking swigs of some unknown liquid stashed away in his pocket. I can’t blame him, if it’s not his scene. Maybe in order to endure, he feels the need for some Dutch Courage. A jocular character even when sober (from what I observe), he’s especially disruptive during seminars. More than once he abandons them altogether, escorted out of the hall by the woman I presume invited him.

Over the course of the weekend, I’ll spot a few people from my home church, Fresh Wine Ministries (FWM). It’s a relief of sorts to see familiar faces. I’m friendly but maintain a polite distance.

The main sessions are led by an elderly Caucasian couple, Anne-Marie and Louis, both on their second go of this marriage business. Apart from Sandrine’s opening address, there’s an awful lot of focus on future marriage, rather than appreciating singleness in its own right. I wonder how this serves those who don’t want to or, for whatever reason, will not marry. I think of those in the room who might be LGBTQ+ and choose to be celibate; how this over-emphasis on being wed invisibilises their experiences.

Louis still has a noticeable Quebecois inflection, despite having left North America decades ago. Most French Canadians I come across in mainland Europe tend to soften their accent to be better understood. This speaker, not so much. I make a special effort to catch what he’s saying. Then again, ignorance is bliss. At least a decade older than his wife, Louis lives down to several clichés of the reactionary older white evangelical. He rails against the Big Bang theory, apparently not aware that it was first put forward by Georges Lemaître, a Catholic priest from Belgium, of all places. Already fed up, I retire to my room when he launches into an off-topic and vehement Zionist apologia that seems to indirectly justify current events in Gaza. On the way to my chambers, I hear strains of a pitchy rendition of The Macarena emanating from one of the bars, courtesy of the hired 'talent'.

Anne-Marie's interventions are much more pertinent than her husband's. She has a heartening backstory of finding a new lease of life when, after 20 years of marriage, her serially unfaithful ex abandons her and their four children. She does make a few stray comments that leave me uneasy, however; one of them being borderline heretical. 

Whilst I am able to engage with some sessions more than others and there are a few insightful moments, it’s nothing that I hadn’t heard before. Louis' interventions irritate more than inspire. It’s hard to relax not knowing when my roommate will return. If she is around, she's amicable but meddlesome. And she snores. I request earplugs from reception after a fitful first night. When my roommate queries why I nap so much, it’s difficult to avoid mentioning her unconscious habit. She blames it on weight-gain, somehow making it all about herself. The second night is a lot less stertorous. I suspect she took my observations to heart and ends up not sleeping well herself.

Meal times are a highlight, not just for the variety but also the friendly (mostly male, Middle Eastern or African) staff. Alas, there is one karen lurking around and scrutinising my every movement. At the end of my stay, when she waves her finger at me for leaving the premises with a half-eaten apple, I snap at her in exasperation. She quickly backs off.

Overall, I’m not sure what to make of the retreat. Back in Brussels there were a number of places I could have been that weekend, including a solidarity demo for DRC. Whilst a change of scene and a bit of alone time with God in relatively plush surroundings has been welcome, there has not been -at least not yet - the life-transforming revelation I had in mind.

The Thrill is Gone

7 + 1/2 min. read

On an otherwise uneventful morning in late January, I receive a notification from the Belgian tax authority that I have some incoming correspondence. Unnerved, I log into the convoluted electronic system to see what awaits me. To my horror, I discover that according to the Kingdom of Belgium, I owe 1200 euros for the tax year 2022.

I search the document for any inconsistencies. (Even in English, it would be difficult wading through the jargon). Surely, there must be some mistake. I was unemployed for the whole of 2022, when I wasn’t on sick leave for suspected burnout. I’m thrown into a panic. I plan to call the tax office at the nearest convenience. In the meantime, I message the leader of my church home group to ask for some well needed corporate prayer and any practical advice. A few members contact me privately. Aussie Joe sends me information about a department that takes care of expat enquiries. Alana, originally from Germany, reassures me that this sort of thing has happened to her a number of times before. Don't worry, she says, it has always resolved in her favour.

Alas, I am not so fortunate. Apparently, even unemployment and incapacity benefits are taxable in Belgium beyond a certain threshold. The irony is, when I was employed, it was the state that consistently owed me. It’s perhaps an even bigger irony, or rather a flagrant contradiction, that only last year I was considered eligible for assistance with essentials like commuting costs, precisely because my income fell below a certain threshold. How can I be too poor for one but ‘comfortable’ enough to be taxed for the other? This bloody country. Its notoriously eye-watering tax rates would be tolerable if residents could see where the hell the funds were invested. Instead, basic infrastructure such as pavements are in a sorry condition (step out at your own peril), state departments are underfunded (as I have discovered, to my detriment) and Brussels has a chronic homelessness problem.  

I am so distraught, I burst into tears on the phone. I am told that even if I am able to pay in instalments, it’s still to be settled within a year. The timeframe could possibly be extended but not without filling out a lot of paperwork. In any case, it’s already been a struggle recently to stay on top of my most important bills.  How am I supposed to find the extra cash to settle this unjust debt? The customer service agents offer no consolation. At least they are professional and polite; not a given in Belgium.  

I am at a loss. For a variety of reasons, I don’t want to burden my family with this. (I do eventually open up to them. I'm not great at hiding things.)

I feel stifled by the pressure. I start to experience a violent resentment towards the country that has been my home for the last three and a half years. Before, when asked what I thought of life in Belgium, I would hesitate to answer. So much has been framed by relocating here during the early days of the pandemic and various other challenges. There were things that I felt were far more retrograde than the UK - for all its faults - as is the case for much of Continental Europe. And yet, nowhere is perfect, I would say. At least I don't have to live like a perennially broke student in Mainland Europe, with rent and commuter costs far more approachable than in the Big Smoke. There are also aspects of Brussels living that I have enjoyed and indeed, remind me of the best elements of London life.

After this tax debacle, my feelings move from ambiguity to ambivalence, if not outright animus. It feels like Belgium has taken from me more than I had to give. On almost every significant metric, be it personal, relational or professional, I have experienced more disappointment than I care to mention. Basta. At what point do I start to accept it’s been a failed experiment? That perhaps God's will has moved in a different direction and left me behind? Maybe the time has truly arrived to start planning an exit strategy, albeit with reluctance. At this juncture it would be a leap into the unknown and not in the optimistic sense.

To add to the growing list of ironies, an acquaintance who works for a local arts and entertainment channel finally uploads an interview he recorded of me a year ago. The timing of its release couldn't be more strange. Not only is much of the information now out-of-date, if not obsolete, it's edited to look like I'm having the time of my life in Brussels.

Unconsciously, I return to the melancholy œuvre of Chet Baker. As he croons The Thrill has Gone, I can’t help but think how apposite it is to my current life season. Likewise for Everything Happens to Me.

Not for the first time, I weep hot tears in my therapist’s office. It’s been so long since I’ve been able to book an appointment because of my straitened circumstances, that I have a stockpile of grievances to work through.  Earlier that week, I also share my discontent with my life coach, Pieter. In a rare show of unguardedness, he intimates his own strong reservations about Belgium. Being a Dutchman, I assumed it would be less of a culture shock for him. I couldn’t be more wrong. The differences between Holland and its neighbour are as stark as night and day, Pieter explains. As we try to work out together how I move on from this life impasse, his suggestions give me much food for thought.

I wish I could say I find solace at church. The continued silence over, if not implicit support for the murderous campaign of the Israeli government in Palestine has become untenable.  I am even more selective about what church activities in which I participate at this sensitive juncture. I avoid anything that might provoke a strong reaction.

Still, the risk remains of exposure to some inanity about geopolitics. At the end of a prayer meeting in early February, we’re asked to pray for Israel, the ‘peace of Jerusalem’ and the release of Israeli hostages. Nary a word about the potential annihilation of Gaza. I am disgusted not only by the blatant bias of the request but the equally misguided response. Of course, I attempt to bring a corrective with my own prayers but it’s telling that I should have to. I hotstep it out of the meeting ASAP. I choose not to hang around for phatic conversation with those for whom I’m rapidly losing respect.

Even a basic Sunday service is a struggle to sit through, nowadays. Last year, Pastor Mike seemed to be turning a worthy corner. Lately, with the church growing exponentially, he's resorting to soundbites, oversimplification - or worse - thoughtless generalisations.

Meanwhile, as I participate in secular political events, I witness people who, whether they have a faith or not, are to my mind, doing God's work. Nobody is perfect. Yet, in these contexts I am surrounded by people who care deeply for justice, the way that Christians are called to do throughout scripture. These spaces seem more real to an extent than the churchy enclave on a Sunday.

I open my heart in a candid email to one of my spiritual mentors, Vinoth Ramachandra. He is also exasperated by the mainstream Church’s reaction to the injustices in Palestine…

"...I'm really struggling on an existential level with all of this" I write "particularly the complicity of the mainstream Church... Of course, there are exceptions and I'm blessed and comforted when I come across Christians showing solidarity with Palestinians. I respect Pope Francis for calling a spade a spade. However, as you know, it's shamefully rare, even amongst some Christians who'd otherwise consider themselves on the margins. Apparently, even the leader of the biggest Christian denomination speaking up isn't enough. I think of the double-standards regarding the reaction to Ukraine. I'm sickened and disillusioned. I feel more isolated from and disenchanted with the capital-C Church than ever. It's not so much a crisis of faith, as a crisis of belonging and community.

…I'm struggling to engage at all... My pastors are of mixed heritage from South Africa. Both grew up under Apartheid, so it's not unfamiliar to them, although they would have been very young. They are certainly old enough to remember the before and after. The husband won't even use the word Apartheid to describe the regime under which he lived; he tiptoes around it with euphemisms.

...[Neither of them] - to my knowledge - has openly commended the honorable actions of their native country nor spoken out in solidarity with the Palestinians and denounced Zionist ideology… There is also at least one member of my church of Palestinian origin. What about his people? His humanity?  Church feels like a charade; a bubble disconnected from the real world and real life concerns. When I'm on [Palestinian] solidarity demos or in similar spaces, there's hardly a Christian presence, if at all. Attending church these days feels like I'm an accomplice to the madness...It's not as simple as switching to a different fellowship. It's not as if I don't visit other churches for a change of scene. The mainstream Church seems to be so co-opted by Babylon, moving elsewhere won't change that. It's not a decision I take lightly but if I had a genuine alternative, I would seriously consider it.

My pastors are decent people with good hearts. Unfortunately, I've long detected a lack of courage, such as the rather restrained response to other valiant protests - if not tacit hostility. I'm highly frustrated by this apparent cowardice and hope for a time to speak to them about it tactfully.

All it takes for evil to prevail...

Anyway, thanks for being one of those refusing to keep silent or justify the unjustifiable. It truly helps keep me sane and hopeful…"

What small spiritual comfort I find is experienced in more intimate settings; my own personal prayer time or one-to-one with friends in the faith. If I'm disenchanted with the Church, my conviction that Christ is a loving Saviour who values the life of all people equally is stronger still. I pay a couple of visits to Alana, who is recovering from a nasty skiing injury she suffered over the festive period. I nevertheless studiously avoid talk of the Middle East. The German state’s historically complicated relationship with the Jewish people and Israel, as well as its disregard for Palestinian life, has had a noxious effect on the mindset of much of its population. Germans with otherwise ‘progressive’ views, leave a lot to be desired when it comes to Justice for Palestine. I’ve learned the hard way.

Returning to the tax scare, there is some reprieve when I receive a one-off commission courtesy of a good acquaintance of Pieter's; by sheer coincidence, or rather God-incidence. This client is unaware of my tax woes. He merely has a lot of money to spend before the funding deadline closes on his latest social entrepreneurial project. After some negotiation, we agree on a fee that just about relieves the tax debt, even if there's not much left over for anything else. Thank God for small mercies, and all that.

Soundtrack: Galatea by IkeN, Chet Baker Sings

Ready or Not...Part I

 

Hamburg (courtesy of Reisroutes)

5 min. read

Hello, is anybody out there? 

Following a lengthy-ish summer hiatus from posting on LVC, it was always going to be tricky working out if/when to return. It’s not as if I have an army of subscribers eagerly awaiting my titbits. In the end, it’ll be the compulsion to write that will have me coming back despite myself.

I’ve enjoyed the respite; just living life without the obligation to document everything. The past couple on months or so have been so packed, it would have been a challenge in any case.

Let’s get the less pleasant aspects out of the way first...

 I am still job hunting. It’s not how I would have liked to spend the aestival months but needs must. I have one interview in late August, during my mother’s first Belgium visit (more on that later), with an anti-racist organisation. I love the sound of the role but taking it would mean a significant pay cut and a continuous search for something more financially sustainable. I am upfront about this in the interview. Some might question the wisdom of this. I can’t say I’d be so bold again. Nonetheless, it feels like the sensible thing to do at the time. The interview otherwise goes swimmingly (as far as I can tell). The feedback in the rejection email is very encouraging. Yet, it is still a refusal when all is said and done. Psycho-emotionally, it’s the usual rollercoaster; some days I feel plucky enough to weather the storm. Other days are so dark I can’t see past them.

There have been moments of reprieve. I take the all-night bus to Germany in mid-August to spend the long Assumption weekend with my dear friend, Coral. We haven’t seen each other in the flesh since early 2020, mere weeks before the global lockdowns. Meanwhile, she’s left Dresden and moved across the country to begin a new job and life season in Hamburg. 

I arrive early Saturday morning but we don’t step out until evening, it takes that long to catch up on our news (well, mainly me and my monologues). Not being familiar with Hamburg, it’s also a chance to be acquainted with what turns out to be an attractive city (the main train station notwithstanding). 

My good friend, Brenda – a Hamburg native – provides some culture tips beforehand. I cross most off my list thanks to a comprehensive city tour, Coral’s guidance and my own curiosity. I also benefit from Germany’s subsidised nationwide summer deal, thanks to which one can traverse the country for a mere nine euros all month.

It’s a soothing break. Coral’s great listening skills and sagacity are forever welcome. Plus, she spoils me rotten, not allowing me to pay for anything.

Shortly after my return to Brussels, I host my mother for the first time since I moved to Belgium. Owing to other commitments, I can only entertain mum for under a week. One of the few advantages of being between jobs is that I can focus on her visit.

I make an itinerary, including a city tour (also a first for me in Brussels), an evening at a traditional Belgian restaurant, a ramble around my local environs, an indispensable trip to the African quarter, Matongé and as many park visits as can be squeezed in. At some point I start feeling flu-like symptoms. I’m too nervous to test in case I have to self-confine. Neither can mum afford to be holed up in Belgian for an extra week. I wait to see how things progress. I do make a swift recovery, save for some coughing and sneezing. I remain masked up and persevere with showing mother dearest a good time.

To my relief, mum likes my Brussels accommodation, as different as it is from my Strasbourg residence. She enjoys her five day visit and promptly books a follow up in the Autumn. TBC.

The famous Matongé Mural (courtesy of Le Vif)

Almost immediately after mum’s departure, I’m off to Namur, Wallonia for my first ever silent Christian retreat. It’s on the condition that my symptoms have  subsided enough not to expose anybody else to risk. I’ll discover on arrival that there are elderly and immuno-compromised guests present.  It’s a tough call. It would’ve been incredibly depressing to quarantine in my flat, especially so soon after mum’s visit. (I do test when I get back to Brussels and it shows up Corona-free).

The journey to Namur is a little madcap. There aren’t many participants in possession of a car and none that live in Brussels. I’m supposed to travel with friend and former church member, Jana, courtesy of a lift offered by another participant living in Flanders. When our ride pulls out, we’re left floundering. Jana researches alternative train routes. By a hair’s breadth, I miss the connection which would have reunited us en route. I remain in touch with Jana by phone whilst I catch a different train.

There is one plus about missing my original connection. I’m not forced to travel with Lorenzo. Yes, it’s a bitter irony that I still run into him at the events in which I once encouraged him to participate whilst we were on good terms. I am thankfully forewarned by Jana that he’ll be attending, she being apprised of the decline in relations. I am not shocked by the news. There was always the outside possibility. I can’t pretend his presence has no impact on the experience. 

By chance, a few weeks before the retreat I speak to Melissa, the mutual friend who introduced me to Lorenzo. At the time I’m unaware of how much she knows about the state of play. A lot, it turns out. He had apparently given up on the friendship long ago, citing flimsy and at times even judgmental reasons, from what I glean from Melissa. 

The River Meuse, Namur (Routard)

He appears to share more with her by IM than he ever does with me on or offline. This revelation sparks a fresh wave of grief. During the retreat I alternate between being courteous but distant (not so hard with most of it spent in silence) or avoiding him altogether. Lorenzo, for his part, prefers the latter. From what I can tell, he's done his utmost to disassociate from me and the situation. It sticks in my claw to see him play the perfect gentleman with others. 

Anger, hurt and betrayal stir within me. 

Before we depart, I nevertheless slip a note under Lorenzo’s door, as encouraged by one of the retreat organisers in the know. It’s with much apprehension. Lorenzo and I are long past reconciliation. Besides, it can’t be a unilateral decision. I’m tired of consistently being the one to reach out; remembering his birthday for example when he can’t be bothered to do the same.

Still, I recognise we need to clear the air. It would otherwise be hypocritical, particularly before breaking bread for Holy Communion on the last day. Lorenzo does acknowledge the note but confesses he’s yet to read it. We have a couple more civil exchanges before everyone goes their separate ways. 

At the time of writing, Lorenzo is yet to respond to my brief letter. No remorse shown. From cowardice or callousness, I have no idea.  It is a needless reminder that this person is not – and probably was never – good for me.

Yet, despite this added challenge, it doesn’t define the getaway. The retreat has an aquatic theme, owing to the centre’s proximity to the River Meuse. The workshops, shared sessions and a temporary art installation all have a therapeutic effect.  I find genuine solace and rest within the comfortable accommodation as well as the scenic surroundings. I while away time in the chapel or sat by the Meuse. The weather continues to be kind, which will soon change when September arrives. It’s a delicious novelty not having anywhere to be; not to be a slave to my own self-imposed schedule. It's something I usually struggle to achieve, even on holiday. The serenity naturally makes it easier to connect with God, although it takes a moment to reach this point. 

The retreat is not perfect, nothing is. The available literature and music is very Eurocentric and male-dominated, for instance. I am the only non-European in the group. However, I have no regrets about attending. It enables me to turn down the volume of my mental traffic, even if I can't completely switch it off. 

Once that precious long weekend is over, I reflect on how to carry forward the tranquillity into my everyday life.

Part II

Expanding Horizons: Part 2

The first weekend of October, I am off to a retreat with my church, Fresh Wine Ministries, at a former monastery in the outskirts of Bruges.

I am apprehensive at first. The activity is organised by the Horizons team at FWM and aimed at ‘young adults’. The definition is already stretched to breaking point with a late 30s cut-off point. And I still fall outside that age bracket. I am finally convinced by my younger Germanic lovelies, Brenda and Karin, to come along. My arm doesn’t need much twisting.  It’ll be my first spiritual getaway in several years, even before the ‘Rona. Plus, this will be my first FWM retreat. I don’t intend to make a habit of sneaking into these youth spaces but with the pandemic, there have been precious few such opportunities lately.

It’s to be an intense three days of activity, with only one full day at the converted monastery. In the end we’ll be 50-odd 20 and 30-somethings (ahem), drawn from different church groups or none at all.

Somehow, Karin and I find ourselves preparing to host a Saturday afternoon workshop. We settle on the theme of making Christian worship spaces more inclusive.

On the evening of departure, Karin is also in charge of ferrying some of the group by train to Bruges. I’m tired and not especially chatty. Reminded it’s not very Christian to be grouchy, I rouse myself to make conversation with a fellow passenger. Amongst our group is a lanky and voluble Belgo-Rwandan, Joshua. He’s pleasant enough but seems inordinately enamoured with the sound of his own voice. Talkative is one thing. Wanting to be the centre of attention is another. 

I am often too transparent for my own good and not skilled at hiding my distaste.

At Bruges, we have the option of lifts to the monastery. I choose the smaller vehicle, hoping for a quiet ride with just Karin and the driver, Pawel. Before I can change my mind, Josh has slipped into the front seat. I roll my eyes at Karin. So much for a peaceful journey. A conversation about our countries of origin descends into the "Oppression Olympics". Newly-arrived from Poland, Pawel makes an unfortunate comparison between the Belgian atrocities in the Congo with the annexation of his country by the Germans. An awkward conversation with Karin present, and him being well-aware of her Teutonic connections. The interaction becomes more awkward still when Pawel’s bluntness and ESL converge into more insensitive comments, intended or otherwise.

Brenda awaits us at the castle. Everyone registered is obligated to take a rapid COVID-19 test, irrespective of vaccination status. Brenda oversees these self-test sessions like a pro. For some of us, myself included, this will be our first Coronavirus test of any kind. There are nervous jokes about the kit resembling a pregnancy test. Brenda will run the procedure a number of times over the next couple of days, as guests arrive in waves. Thankfully, it appears all are virus-free which allows for a level of freedom. Most significant of all, we don’t have to wear masks on the grounds.

The facilities are simple but more modern than expected. The central-heating is mercifully in working order and well-needed. The weather will be consistently wet and cold. The meals are cooked by volunteers. Some are more substantial than others. 

Brenda has used her coordinator privileges to arrange a room for just us two, for which I’m grateful. After an unsuccessful attempt to negotiate the top bunk, I cede it to my statuesque friend.

Following dinner the first night, there’s just about time for icebreakers. Brenda and main coordinator, Monica, do an admirable job of organising inventive games. Over the weekend, I’m pleased to meet a number of non-FWM members and those who are not regular churchgoers. We’re not just stuck in our Fresh Wine bubble (no pun intended). I'm also on the alert for those who look more mature than the rest. A bit of grey here, or laughter lines there. Alas, I turn out to be a good half a decade older than even those.

After the fun and games we retire, in theory, to our rooms. I catch a glimpse of senior Pastor Mike and give a hearty greeting. His wife and co-Pastor, Tasha, will arrive in the morning with the children.

The excitable voices of guests carry late into the night. I wait for some calm to take a midnight shower, to avoid having to jostle for the bathroom in the morning. I won’t know until later that I end up using the boys’ facilities. Fortunately, there are no unintended sitcom-style nude encounters.

The next morning I hear a melodious male voice singing with abandon. It takes a few moments to realise it’s Pastor Mike, doing a solo Praise & Worship session for the brief time he’ll have the space to himself.

After an excessively bread-based breakfast, we head to the main room for the morning activities. Karin and I are invited to announce our workshop. I fluff my lines but manage to work it into the routine with a self-deprecation that comes more easily than usual.

Later a skinny-jeans clad, barefoot Pastor Mike takes the floor. I'm glad to note he's not wearing product in his hair, letting his ethnically-ambiguous waves flow free. He leads us in more Holy Song and a moment of scriptural reflection. 

After the sermon, we break into our pre-assigned small groups for a time of intimate prayer. Katya, a self-effacing woman in her early/mid 30s, speaks frankly about navigating an extended season of singleness. She wants God to be enough but yearns for her own family. It’s a tension that I know all too well. When Jelena, our group leader, suggests I pray for Katya, it's already on my mind. I request that we have a moment alone.

As I move into a new decade, I’ve been reflecting even more on life's disappointments. I’m slowly beginning to appreciate how my own story and process allows me to be there for others. I'm finding comfort and joy in other types of relationships; different from- not inferior (maybe even superior) to romance. Friendships are taking on a new beauty and flavour. It might not have been so if everything had gone according to my plan. God doesn’t waste your pain, as my mother’s pastor is wont to say.

Katya wells up as we pray and share life stories. She’s so appreciative of my input that, at the end of the retreat, she presents me with a local delicacy.

The two of us are some of the last to arrive for lunch. I am sat next to a sweet South American chica. We affirm each other in an organic way. I tell her God has a sense of humour. This time last year, I spent in the company of somebody from the same corner of the world. At the time, I thought he was also sweet but it quickly turned sour. This positive exchange with his compatriot a year-to-the-day feels like cosmic consolation. Or rather a definitive full stop to a hurtful moment that seems both recent and distant.

That afternoon, Karin and I set up for our workshop. Once the tech is sorted, we wait. Potential participants turn out to just be lounging in the room before leaving to snooze, play games or take a walk in the rain. Others join and change their mind. Pastor Mike, squeezes my shoulder and wishes us all the best. Having grown up in Apartheid South Africa as a so-called Coloured, his participation would have been salient. (It turns out he isn't aware of the workshop's content).

In the end, five stay for the two-hour discussion, based around Sandra Van Opstal’s lovingly confrontational talk on Worship and Justice. Plans for breakout groups are shelved. Despite my intentions to leave it all up to Providence, I feel let down by the low turnout. 

Karin can relate but is more philosophical. 

The views of the group are as diverse as their backgrounds. Three hail from Eastern Europe, amongst them Pawel. His position relies on the ‘safety’ of Poland not being part of the colonial scramble. He claims to be colour-blind. There’s an unwise use of the word ‘civilised’. Karin tries to correct this misstep and make Pawel realise that as a Caucasian male, he enjoys privilege of which he’s not aware. I add, as tactfully as possible, that being "colour-blind" is not a virtue but a way of effacing difference and rendering whiteness as normative. Pawel is slightly defensive yet still in a posture to learn. He came for that purpose, he explains. Back home, there is so little engagement with these issues. He wouldn’t know where to start. He’s so far been reliant on online content.

Other attendees are challenged by some of Opstal’s observations as well as our own. Even those from racialised backgrounds have not really reflected on Western hegemony; still evident in churches that pride themselves on being multicultural. Diversity is not the same as inclusion, I point out.

The lively discussion continues around the snacks table, notably with Pawel and a dapper young gent with an inflated sense of himself, whose name I’m yet to memorise. I step away in time before this apparent contrarian can pursue some pointless controversy.

Before embarking on a long walk with Karin, I note that the Hip-Hop dance workshop is full, somewhat to my surprise. I thought inhibition would get the better of guests and they’d be more inclined towards stimulating discourse around a topical issue. Go figure.

Later that evening, Pastor Tasha and Mike submit themselves to a grilling by the guests. I’ve attended these ‘Ask Anything’ sessions before-albeit online-where questions are submitted anonymously. 

Normally, and predictably, these queries show a level of restraint. There are the usual theological conundra, often preoccupied with relationships (How do you know if he/she is the one?). This time however, the interrogation is far more exciting, if damn right impertinent. The pastors aren’t only queried about eschatology or dating but also their views on contraception, advice on getting out of abusive relationships and the use of kinky toys. Oh yes, and their preferred sex position.

I’m aghast. I can’t think of any context or anybody I’m so close to where that question would ever be appropriate. Except my future husband. If he exists.

Monica doesn’t flinch, reading out these cheeky probes as if it’s a shopping list. To Tasha and Mike’s credit, they’re far less scandalised than the rest of us. Perhaps they’re used to this level of curiosity. They maintain their sang-froid, are open and easy-going. It leaves a good impression. The culture of taboo should be minimised so that we can be authentic.

Afterwards, Pawel continues the candour. He opens up to me about the depression he suffered following the break-off of an engagement. Formerly agnostic, his interest in church and God began with the woman he’s currently dating. He believes now that it’s part of him, regardless of what becomes of the present relationship.

The evening events continue with a time of praise and prayers. Tired of the Coldplay-lite songs that dominate Western-style charismatic churches the world over, I retire to my room. The singing follows me. It does sound rapturous. I plan to make it downstairs for prayers but mismanage my time.

That night, guests stay up well into the wee-small hours, apparently playing raucous rounds of Uno and Jenga. I still hear the cheers as I nod off, long past 1am.

That already brings us to Sunday, the last day of the retreat. I skip another bread-based breakfast for some extra hours of kip. That morning, Pastor Natasha will share how she came to faith by recounting her troubled formative years in the Rainbow Nation. The daughter of co-dependent parents and one of a dozen siblings, she was passed from one relative to another. By the grace of God, she survived alcoholic step-parents, inter-continental moves, suicidal ideation and even, very briefly, rough-sleeping. She eventually worked in academia before becoming a full-time church minister. Tasha's unstable upbringing made her very intentional about her own life choices. Once again, by the grace of God, she's landed on her feet. It’s a well-rounded message, combining emotional and psychological factors with spiritual warfare.

Although my background was not as chaotic, there are elements of overlap in our stories. I’m drawn to Pastor Tasha’s testimonies of healing and forgiveness.

After her intervention, we divide into small groups again to pray for each other. Before lunch I grab the opportunity to speak to Natasha, one-to-one, albeit somewhat hurried.

Lunch is a light-hearted and cordial affair, with votes of thanks, the distribution of gifts and official farewells. 

An unexpectedly tense discussion with one of the song leaders, Mark, temporarily puts a dent in my good humour. 

Having perceived -rightly or wrongly – something of the exhibitionist in him, I have hitherto kept my distance. 

However, I’m feeling sufficiently upbeat after lunch to venture an introduction. I detect – and ignore – a needlessly sardonic tone to some of his responses. The pleasantries all but evaporate when the conversation takes on a political turn. A convinced centrist, Mark claims that even if the ecological and human cost of Capitalism is high, it’s still the best option in town. I counter that he’s speaking from a privileged Global North position, bearing in mind he’s a beneficiary of the status quo. He is defensive, claiming some taste of deprivation having been born in Burma. I point out that the experience of a European ex-pat would be very different from an impoverished Burmese.

Thanks for judging my life when you don't know me(!)

In any case, I add, he can’t afford to be so dismissive about Capitalism’s adverse affects on the environment. Even if he doesn’t consider it discredited by the substantial human cost (!), the Climate Crisis is an existential one.

I have been in this position many times, debating with a (usually, not always) cocky and/or overbearing white male. I stand my ground. Mark calms down abruptly, although I can’t read his intentions. The heated discourse is interrupted by chocolates passed round by the effete and endearing Claude; one of Mark's bandmates.

Whether from remorse or otherwise, Mark will make a point to be amicable whenever our paths cross in the near future.

Meanwhile, I rush to offload about this frustrating exchange with an ever-sympathetic, Karin.

It’s home time. Guests hurry around finalising their travel plans. I’ve bagged a free ride with Claude and a Dutch lass, recently moved to Belgium.

It’s a very pleasant journey back to Brussels, with the conversation flowing freely and unforced.

Once Claude drops us off at the Metro, I make my way to Mérode for some Lebanese takeaway. There I bump into a number of fellow travellers, including Mark, Jelena and chatty Josh. I’ve thawed towards him during the course of the weekend. He’s eager to probe an off-hand comment I made back at the castle about being a "tech-vegan".

Much to his credit, Josh asks intelligent questions and listens as well as he shares. 

I apologise for being stand-offish at the start. Josh has not been oblivious to it.  For him, it's a friendly challenge; a chance to converse. For me, a lesson in humility.

Soundtrack: Melodi by Kit Sebastian

Lockdown: The Sequel

A few weeks into the second round of lockdowns that have swept across much of Western Europe, there are signs that the sacrifice is slowly paying off in Belgium. Thank God. Infection rates and hospital admissions are moving in the right direction. Any optimism however, must remain extremely cautious. Some of this success could be attributed to extended school holidays. 

Recently announced festive plans favour commerce and little else. Depressingly, the tight restrictions on indoor gatherings will remain until mid-January. Neither will restaurants, cafés and most cultural venues be re-opening. It's as if the Belgian authorities expect people to flout the rules over the Christmas season. Thus, they're not giving any leeway, as to offset any possible breaches.

Day to day, the sense of routine is more maddening than reassuring. I remark to friends and family that to an extent, I’m struggling more this time than during the even stricter quarantines of spring. A few echo my sentiments. I don’t want to over-romanticise the difficulties of Lockdown Part 1. Domestic and other forms of (often gender-based) violence rocketed. There was of course the widespread economic devastation for many. Not to mention those already in a fragile psychological state. All travel plans came to an abrupt halt. On a personal front, like many living alone I was completely isolated save for some online community. I had the additional stress of unemployment. 

On the material front, life has improved drastically since March. I found work and moved countries. Thank God, I'm still in good health despite the continued circulation of a vicious virus.

Yet mentally, there’s a particular weariness accompanying Lockdown: Part 2. There’s neither the shock or novelty of the situation to cushion the blow. It’s also leading up to winter in the Northern Hemisphere. There’s no longer the warmth or heartening abundance of sunlight that characterised this year’s unseasonably clement Spring.

Whereas online audio/visual platforms proved a lifeline during the First Wave, personally the charms of community-by-Zoom are wearing off fast. My desire for human interaction and -on the work front- the professional imperative, demand that I interact with these apps despite ever-diminishing returns. On one hand, with more time in theory and less reasons to step outside, I have more opportunities to catch up with friends at a distance. I reconnect with acquaintances with whom I haven’t spoken in years, including a celebrated writer and pundit now based in the German capital. Another one-and-a-half hour conversation with a long-lost friend, builds up to the announcement that she’s divorcing her childhood sweetheart. As she stoically recounts the hellish last five years of her life, it puts things in perspective.

And yet…

There are days I’m bouncing off the walls from the minute I wake up. The thought of another whole day of quasi-house arrest fills me with dread. Or rather, the familiar feeling of light depression eating away at the peripheries. The spontaneous crying on a regular basis is a sure sign. One morning, to combat the especially lachrymose Monday blues, I spin Sade's modern-day secular Psalm King of Sorrow.

There's nothing anyone can say to take this away. Just another day. Nothing [feels] any good.

Boy, that hits the spot.

It's as if lockdown removes all the pros about being single and leaves mostly the cons.  I make a point to leave my flat at least once a day. Preferably during the lunch hour whilst it’s still daylight. Occasionally, my gamble doesn’t pay off. Work duties encroach on my break. By the time I step out for a quick jaunt round the neighbourhood, I’m late back for a work meeting much to the consternation of my increasingly ill-humoured supervisor, Ama. Navigating her shifting-moods is exacting more psychic energy than I can spare.

Work is otherwise good. Busy but good. I’m becoming more autonomous; albeit with much still to learn. The projects and campaigns on which I’m working have never been more urgent than in the current crisis. Thank God I can be useful at a moment like this. Yet the atomisation that comes from having to constantly WFH is tough for us social butterflies. I’ve never been a homebody. The first lockdown necessitated it. I adapted and survived but it’s still not second nature. With the closure of all eating establishments and cultural centres, it’s not as if there are many other chances for sustained offline social interaction.

I am so grateful for any occasion to get outside. The streets are no longer enveloped in the ghostly quiet of the first lockdown. (Admittedly I was living in France where, until very recently, restrictions were generally harsher). One Sunday afternoon, when a newly made acquaintance cancels a promenade because of bad weather, I improvise one of my own. Rain, fierce winds et al. There’s no such thing as a wasted journey. Contrary to the advice by some health experts, I make frequent shopping trips. When I arrive to find my local Aldi’s closed earlier than I expected one evening, I don’t curse the heavens. I’m just pleased to be out in the elements. I've developed a tendency to leave the radio on when I go for my twilight walks, so I don't return home to silence.

My local shopping centre in Woluwe is comfortingly serene. There are still sufficiently-distanced corners to sit, snack, read… I even stumble across a deserted Chapel on one of my visits, seizing a chance to collect my thoughts in the calm setting.

When I can, I arrange to meet with colleagues and new acquaintances for one of the state-approved park strolls. Meanwhile, the intervals between catch-ups with the South American have widened. For all his seemingly enchanting whimsy, otherworldliness and not conforming to masculine clichés, I worry that he might just be another fickle and unreliable hetero. He has a habit of ignoring my text proposals to meet up, only to send me a cheery non-sequitur out of the blue. Or to leave me an (admittedly flattering) voice message about how he misses the 'melody of my voice' and the 'poetry' of how I speak. Hmm. It's as if he only comes alert when he's being ignored. 

At one point he invites me round to dine. No matter how good a first impression, I don't make a habit of going alone to men's homes; especially those I hardly know. I eventually agree, telling myself not to be too rigid but still mentally hedging my bets. I pray for divine intervention if it's not to be. A couple of hours before our scheduled Sunday lunch, he texts to say he's too exhausted and wants to postpone. Hmm. Trying to work out if he's on a power trip or just incredibly disorganised is another mental workout that I. Do. Not. Need. 

I default to my natural spiritual posture; wrestling with God. It’s not that I don’t recognise a foxhole. Or even need one to call on the Almighty. God is ever-present. I am just seeking a more tangible experience.  More often than not, it feels like screaming into the void and other clichés. Not just about my own sadness but the state of the world.

Speaking of spiritual outlets, despite the disruption I’ve managed to find some church community. Ironically, the first time I attend a Sunday morning service at Fresh Wine Ministries, it's the last before places of worship are obligated to close. I have a presentiment something isn’t right when one of the welcome team mentions Pastor Mike has some ‘special announcements’ to make. 

With a ready smile and a comically-broad Afrikaans accent, he’s a man of unbelievable good cheer. Suspiciously good, at first. Such that it would be impossible to maintain if it weren’t innate. 

Pastor Mike explains that the authorities changed their mind literally from one day to the next. His message is adapted in accordance to the news; acknowledging the turmoil whilst suitably encouraging.

Afterwards, I have the opportunity to speak to the man himself. I confess the closure comes as a blow. From late September/early October I have been visiting churches. I didn’t realise how much I missed Sunday services in real time. Fresh Wine had been on my radar for a while. I’d been following them from afar. 

I’ve avoided joining Anglophone congregations as not to get stuck in an expat bubble. The church offers a bilingual service (English to French translation of which I avail myself). It’s a compromise I can live with. Unlike other Anglophone churches, it attracts a number of Francophones. Also contrary to other churches I visited, COVID-19 restrictions are not a reason/excuse to be guarded or unwelcoming to newcomers. Fresh Wine members seem genuinely warm and friendly. Thanks to one or two serendipitous encounters on and offline, I meet up with a couple of them on separate occasions for the aforementioned state-approved park walks. (One said acquaintance, Gerry Rose, is like a dark-skinned Senegalese version of the capricious South American. Except more reliable. By coincidence, both are deceptively* camp fashion designers who are apparently attracted to voluptuous, cocoa-complexioned African chicks. Go figure. No sparks with Gerry on my end but that's a boon. I can enjoy his company without being all in my feelings)

*I like to believe I'm forward-thinking enough to realise that not all gay men are camp and vice versa. Heck, I've seen enough examples that defy the stereotype. Alas, socialised-instincts are hard to kick.

There’s much to recommend FWM. Pastor Mike clearly doesn’t take himself too seriously. The church has an outward focus and is pragmatic in its approach to God’s kingdom. It doesn’t espouse pie-in-the-sky theology. They've begun organising monthly lamentation evenings-in the spirit of the psalms.  The objective is to have a safe space for people to mourn all that this turbulent season has churned up. For the inaugural event, I'm crying before I even log-in.

It helps that Fresh Wine's senior pastors are not all Caucasian and/or  male. Mike and his wife Tasha, diverge from the usual. They’re both offspring of multi-generational mixed-heritage families from the Cape. They have a late youth/early middle-aged vitality, whilst old enough to remember what it was like living under Apartheid.

I am forthcoming about all these considerations. Pastor Mike seems to appreciate my honesty. 

A few weeks later I join an online newcomers meeting. Mike is chipper as ever, despite having just recovered from the dreaded virus.

I am fairly distracted, having lively bilingual private conversations using the chat function. 

During the Q&A, I point out that singles (especially women) shouldn't be sidelined the way churches have a tendency to do. My remarks receive enthusiastic assent from fellow singles, as well as (married) Pastor Mike. FWM is doing its best but, he admits, more could be done.

Another new-ish member, reeling from her mother’s recent demise, commandeers the introductions segment. Mike’s polite interventions are in vain. Loneliness compels her to monopolise the floor as long as she can get away with it. The meeting thus finishes later than scheduled. My positive appraisal of FWM is reinforced. Still, it would have been so much better if we could have all met offline.