It’s always bittersweet coming back to a place you have called home after many years. For me it was nearly ten years. Things look the same, smell the same. But so much has changed.
The infamous swing at Cleeve House was gone,
the grass seemed better kept,
the stone steps out back were done up,
safety barriers installed around the terrace where we used to jump.
Overall, it was impressive seeing Cleeve House at its best, even if it looked a bit different. I was used to it looking a bit rougher around the edges.
But more than that, the thing which stuck with me was…
Seeing the people I once sang beside at workshops, looking older. People I once carried on my shoulders — now towering over me. And the countless new 3rd-gen children and young 2nd-gen teens and adults, who look blankly at you as you walk past, for it’s their first time doing so.
And then, while you grab a quick drink and try to find some shade, you keep looking around and a sort of sadness falls over you. You start to notice all those that were once there, but now are not — the friends who have moved abroad, those that have left the church, those that have passed. Like empty seats around a family dining table, you can’t help but notice those who are not present.
If a community is a place where people “know your name,” then what is it called when the people who “used to be there” “knew” your name? A soccer team, maybe? Or a university graduating class?
I married a Japanese girl I had never met before when I was twenty years old. My main motivation for doing so was twofold: one, my deep personal relationship with Father; and two, my respect and admiration for my own parents’ marriage.
I spent seven years in Japan and now nearly three years in Portugal. Living abroad has rounded out my character and forced me to grow in ways I was never expecting to. But it left gaps in my timeline here in the UK that can’t be filled.
Coming back to the UK, I guess I was hoping that everything — the people, the smells, the feelings — would all feel the same as they once did. But they didn’t. And why would they?
The friends that I used to have have been on their own journeys. They have their own families, careers, goals, arguments, addictions, which are unique to them. I guess it’s just hard for me to accept that when I look at them I see someone else, and not the person I remember. Maybe just like a parent whose children have already grown up — the memories of simpler times are so overwhelmingly vivid that they almost overshadow the actual reality of things.
Where did my friends go? Where are my mentors? Those that inspired me? I haven’t forgotten you. Please don’t forget me.
One of the first old friends I bumped into was Kenneth’s dad, as I call him. On greeting him, he was a bit bewildered as to why I was living in Portugal of all places. And honestly, I do ask myself that question quite often.
I struggled to really explain to him why I was there, mainly because it boils down to a lot of factors and gut feeling, and the reason has changed over time. The witty answer is “to find my brother’s spouse,” but that’s a story for another day.
Anyway, my mother stepped in to explain, instead, why I wasn’t in the UK, as maybe she thought that would be easier for him to understand. And of course I knew it would, because I remember the lengths his own son Samuel had gone to to obtain his wife’s right to reside in the UK.
“The UK government won’t give his wife a visa…” she started. His whole demeanour shifted from understandably puzzled to “oh, I completely understand, I’m so sorry.”
It made me think of how many similar winding paths church members have been on which, on the face of it, can’t be easily understood.
Why are you here?
Why are you dedicating your life to this or that mission?
Why did your blessing not work out?
It makes you wonder how deeply you understand and can empathise with those around you.
In many ways, I feel rejected by the UK, my mother. The country that gave me my spiritual foundation, where all my childhood memories were formed — the country that claims to be so supportive won’t allow my wife residence here, doesn’t recognise my children as British citizens, and has become prohibitively expensive for the vast majority of people to live a semi-decent existence.
And simultaneously, I seem to see foreigners everywhere — especially the single-male-with-no-family types, or the “I want to sell or do cocaine with you” types, or the “welcome to my vape shop, actually a front for a prostitution ring” types, or the flip-flop-wearing, always-on-the-phone types, or the tweeting-out-on-the-street-corner types, or the pyjama-wearing, overweight, Uber Eats–ordering types.
In my home town, where I grew up, I hear Arabic spoken more than I do English now. I no longer recognise anyone when I walk down my street; the coffee shops and bakeries have been replaced with shisha lounges and sari outfitters.
Wouldn’t the countryside be nicer? Maybe, but at that point, why stay in the UK if you’re moving away from where you’re from and what you know? I was practically interrogated by a Portuguese friend of mine, who lives in London, as to why my family decided to live in the Portuguese countryside — as if it needed justification, when the alternative is the current state of the UK.
Was living in Portugal or Japan lonely? Sure.
Not understanding what people are saying sucks.
Never fully feeling accepted by a country sucks.
Not understanding why things are done a certain way, when you would do it differently, sucks.
But nothing sucks more than being in your own home and it not feeling like home.