The Crumbling Wall

My blog has floundered in the wonderful chaos of the past few weeks. Here is the jet-tour of events. The wall crumbles at the end.

During the second to last weekend of September, my church did a retreat in the Ardennes. It is a gorgeous area. Church has taken new meaning with this petite group. The comparatively enormous church of my childhood is technically a church family, yet in a congregation that large, one can hide. In a church of less than 30 people, I cannot blur the fact of my imperfection. It’s not what we want, but it is what we need.

Improv with my host brother 

At the beginning of October, my family (Belgian) went to Paris where my parents met my parents! We didn’t see much aside from Notre Dame, but the family that I have become a son to in this country passed hours with the parents to whom I have always been a son. Exchange programs strongly counsel against parents visiting their exchange student, but I pursued this rendezvous because of my relationship with my family her. It was a rare opportunity for the Belgians I love to meet the Americans I love.

Succumbing to fatigue and poor food choices, I marched into the Jeunesse & Vie (Young Life) Retreat the next week with the light on my gas gauge glowing fiery orange. However, the weekend allowed me to connect with other Christians in Belgium, a bit of an oxymoron. Belgium is not a developing country lacking basic necessities, yet it is a spiritually empty country. On the other hand, there are Christians that have a passion for their Father, as I experienced later.
The following weekend, my “uncle” and I traveled an hour and a half to attend a church service. I’ve never attended a service like that one before. We praised and it was not because we were obliged to. When I let go of my pride, (as much as that is possible), I discovered what a joy it is to worship God in a group such as that one. In fact, “worship” only does justice to the action if it involves joy in the relationship between God and the worshipper and a wonderful sense of His presence.

For the moment, I skip over my voyage to England.

Leaving early on Saturday, the final day of October, we rented a studio near La Coq on the edge of the North Sea. The four days we spent at la mer, visiting Dunkirk, Oostende, and other towns, walking for hours sur la plage, exploring the paths winding through the dunes, and taking an impulsive dip in the North Sea (just me because my family isn’t insane), rested and restored us. During the break from our train-train quotidien, we visited Bruges, the Venice of Belgium. In Middlekirk, we stood by as the fishermen emptied their nets and prepared their horses for the next round of shrimp collection. Yes, horses can fish. 

A Backyard in Bruges

Le matin à la mer

Though we left Wednesday, the vacation did not end until Friday, when the wall came down. That day, I realized that French is no longer a thorny route to English, but another medium I can use to create conversation. My exchanges are bloodied by scraped indicatives, faceless nouns, and black-eyed subjunctives, yet I can speak to strangers, to friends, and to my family on a spectrum of subjects, from empty banter to the definition of success. Like an artist that has only ever used pencils and just discovered the difficult magic of pastels, it requires more messing-up, but I envision bright paintings to come.