Here is the account from Lloyd's book about how Patrick Haeck both paid for their holiday and built their attic space.
Even so, we knew there was a
missing ingredient. We were now
on our own, adrift from any real
sense of community. Our
geographical isolation in a quiet
rural village 20 minutes’ drive from
the nearest town did not help. Apart
from my occasional games of
football with some of my fellow
villagers, we did not really interact
with our neighbors—certainly not
with the closeness that we were
accustomed to in the Witness fold.
So when an ex-JW Facebook friend,
whom I had previously only met on
Skype, asked whether I wanted to
join him and his family for a
holiday on the Croatian coast, our
rather precarious financial
predicament left us with a dilemma.
Do we play it safe and stay at home
for the next few days to conserve
funds, or do we throw caution to the
wind by spending what little money
we have on a trip to the coast for a
holiday with virtual strangers?
To this day I still cannot fully
explain why, but something told me
this was something the three of us
needed to do—even if we could not
justify it financially. Patrick Haeck
was a charismatic Belgian with an
infectious smile who was a fan of
my work on JWsurvey. Based on
our Skype conversations, he seemed
the sort of person I could enjoy
spending time with—and I felt we
needed all the friends we could get.
I thus spent the week just before our
proposed rendezvous sending out
emails to any translation clients
who owed us money, pleading with
them to pay. But when the day came
for us to drive out to meet Patrick at
his rented apartment in Pula, our
bank account total was still
depressingly close to zero. I sent
out another flurry of emails, hoping
that at least somebody would pay
straight up. Finally, two or three
payments trickled through on
PayPal. We now had just enough
money to buy some diapers for
Jessica and put some fuel in the tank
for the four-hour drive. We threw
our things in the car, and off we
went!
On our arrival in Pula, Patrick
came to meet us at a pre-arranged
roadside location (the place where
he was staying was hard to find)
before leading us on to his rented
apartment. With him was his wife
Belinda, his two daughters and one
of their boyfriends, together with
another Belgian family of ex?Witnesses including four school-age
children. We were warmly greeted
and immediately felt at ease in the
relaxed vibe of our new friends,
who immediately set about
preparing a barbecue banquet.
Especially noticeable was the hum
of children running around carefree
and having a good time—something
we simply had not experienced
since we were last in company with
Witnesses. Over fine Belgian beer
and grilled barbecue fare we
chatted about our shared experience
and I learned of how the other
couple who were staying nearby,
Bjorn and Priskilla, were close to
Patrick because he had always
looked out for Priskilla, an abuse
victim, since his days as an elder.
We were invited to stay with
Patrick’s family. His daughter and
her boyfriend even gave up their
room and slept on the couch so we
could be comfortable. As the
vacation went on, we felt more and
more cocooned in an atmosphere of
unconditional love and friendship.
We both noticed how eerie it was
that, in the five days we spent with
Patrick and his expanded family,
whom he jokingly referred to as his
“cult,” we never witnessed one
dispute or acrimonious outburst—
something we were both
accustomed to from vacationing
with Witness friends and family.
Our time with Patrick was precisely
what we were in need of: a
reminder that we could still enjoy
that special sense of community
despite no longer being in a cult.
We just needed to put forth a little
effort to find it.
It was not long after we returned
home that our uplifting vacation
experience received something of
an encore. Patrick telephoned and
asked if it would be agreeable for
him and Belinda to come visit us
before they headed back to
Belgium. They had just dropped
their youngest daughter off at
Zagreb Airport (which is only an
hour from where we live) because
she needed to get home more
urgently. They wanted to see where
we lived, even if it was only for a
brief visit. I told them that of course
they could come, but I knew before
I put the phone down that it would
be complicated to entertain our
guests. Firstly, despite some small
progress, our apartment was still
barely habitable. At that stage we
were still without a working
bathroom. We basically only had a
bedroom and a large unfinished
space, containing our desks and
computers, framed by a bare brick
wall and some windows. By now,
we were accustomed to such basic
conditions, but how would our
guests react? Secondly, Dijana’s
parents were downstairs and would
almost certainly shun our guests if
they needed to go down and use the
building’s only bathroom.
As soon as Patrick and Belinda
arrived, we ushered them upstairs
and put on a small buffet for them.
We showed them around and
explained our modest progress
since first arriving in 2009. At one
point, Patrick went downstairs to
use the bathroom. Thankfully,
however, there was no
awkwardness with Dijana’s
parents, who had secluded
themselves in their room (I suppose,
in their own way, this was their
version of showing kindness—by
not putting themselves in a position
where they would have to be
unkind).
As hard as Patrick and Belinda
tried, it was difficult for them to
conceal their shock at our
circumstances. Normally very
exuberant and talkative, Patrick
stared at the walls and ceiling,
apparently deep in thought.
“I can see you’re shocked. This
is pretty basic, but we’re hoping to
improve things,” I said, trying to
lighten the mood.
“I’m not shocked,” he replied.
“I’m just trying to think how I can
help.
Shortly after saying this, Patrick
excused himself and went outside to
his car. He returned with a carry?case full of various tools, all neatly
organized and strapped with velcro.
“These are yours. Don’t worry,
I can easily get a replacement box,”
he said.
I thanked him for the thoughtful
gesture, which went above and
beyond my expectations. After all,
Dijana and I were happy simply to
belong to such a fantastic group of
friends after so recently being cut
adrift from our Witness community.
But I was to learn that Patrick had
more help in mind while he had
been carefully studying our walls
and roof, as would become clear in
future Skype and Facebook
conversations. Patrick knew that
Jessica did not yet have her own
bedroom, and he noticed our roof
was without insulation with winter
approaching. His idea was to return
two months later and remedy both
those problems himself—which is
exactly what he did.
To this day, Dijana and I pinch
ourselves when we think about it,
but I suppose when you have good
friends with a willingness to help,
this is the sort of magic that can
result. Patrick, Belinda, their
daughter Oriana and soon-to-be
son-in-law Matthias drove across
Europe in October 2014 and rolled
up on our driveway to begin what
they called their “humanitarian
mission.” They brought with them a
huge trailer, every last square inch
of which was crammed with tools
and materials, including enough
drywall and floor laminate for
Jessica’s room, and enough
insulated ceiling panels to finish the
ceiling for the whole apartment.
Though one or two of their friends
back in Belgium had kindly
contributed toward the materials,
the majority was paid for out of
their own pockets.
After Mission HQ had been
established downstairs in Dijana’s
parents’ part of the house (they had
vacated beforehand for a few days
—again, to avoid any
awkwardness) Patrick and Matthias
set to work almost immediately by
punching a hole through the wall of
the “cave” that would be Jessica’s
bedroom window. Within three days
of relentless high-intensity work,
which continued to as late as 2 or 3
a.m. some nights, Jessica had a new
bedroom complete with wallpaper,
laminate floor and furnishings from
IKEA. The half of the open space in
our apartment where we spent most
of our time also now had a ceiling
with insulation. Not content with all
that, Patrick left me enough ceiling
panels for me to finish the other
side of the apartment and a giddying
amount of tools and equipment for
future work—the total value of
which I dare not estimate. We could
never have dreamed of such
kindness from our Witness friends
or family who were shunning us,
which made it even more special.
And, perhaps sweetest of all, it was
a source of wonder for Dijana’s
parents when they returned from
self-enforced exile to behold what
our “mentally diseased” and
supposedly self-absorbed apostate
friends had created for their
granddaughter
Another two months passed, and
Dijana, Jessica and I again found
ourselves reunited with our
“happiness cult”—the Haeck family
and friends—this time in Belgium
for what would be our first ever
Christmas celebration. We were
invited to stay for four weeks over
Christmas and the New Year, during
which time we enjoyed more
gratuitous lashings of fun and
laughter. The simple joy of going
for a drink with friends and making
a complete idiot of myself,
something I had not been able to do
for years, was revisited with
Patrick, Matthias and Bjorn as my
partners in crime on a night out in
Ghent. (The evening climaxed with
me being discovered, inebriated, in
a compromising situation with a
Christmas tree.)
