When Suicide Became Salvation in Belgium

Editor’s Note: This is Part Five in Journey’s summer series, “Stories From the World of Missions.” Every two weeks this summer, we publish an article recounting a story from the experiences of our founder-director who was privileged to serve two decades as a missionary in Europe. We hope you will continue to join us here for a summer of rejoicing at the works of our great God. This story remembers the day when God turned a potential suicide into an eternal salvation.

When our family served as missionaries to the people of Belgium, we lived in the southern city of Mons, the capital of the Hainaut province. Mons is home to a beautiful Grand Place, the St. Waudru Collegiate Church, and the “Beffroi de Mons,” a towering 17th-century belfry featuring 49 bells that offers beautiful music and spectacular views of the city and region. Between our neighbors, the churches we served, and our daughters’ public schools, we developed many wonderful friendships during our Mons years. We loved our life there.

But missionary life overseas, in many ways, is similar to life in America in that there are errands to run, bills to pay, and a residence to maintain. During our first year in Belgium, the heating system in the modest house we rented developed a water leak in an upstairs bedroom. I contacted a company to do the repair and take care of the required annual servicing of the heating system.

THE ENCOUNTER

The owner-operator – I’ll call him Mr. DuPont – arrived punctually on the day we had arranged. Belgian companies are great that way. After greeting him at the front door, I invited him into our house and led him to the room where the leak was located.

As I usually do with service technicians, I stayed with him to offer a helping hand and talk. He was intrigued to learn that I am an American, commenting (in French, of course), “But you speak good French. How is it possible that you are American?”

I told him that our family had previously lived in Tours, France, where my wife and I had attended an institute of French language and culture (one he knew well), and that our daughters had learned their French the hard way: they had sat in Tours’ public-school classrooms and figured it out for themselves. Now, in our third year in French, our daughters were at the top of their respective classes.

As happened countless times in France and Belgium, I saw that I had his respect because our family had done the hard work of learning the language of the land, and rather than living in an English-speaking enclave. We had worked hard to assimilate into Belgian culture, and it paid off in open doors and friendships. He smiled and told me, “C’est très bien.”

Ministry Sidenote: We learned early on in France, our first stop as missionaries, that before people will accept you and your message, they must know you respect them and the country they love. A key, perhaps the greatest key, is taking their language seriously. To French speakers, French is not first a communication tool, but an expression of their shared culture, a heartbeat. Respecting the people and culture meant dedicating ourselves to a serious study of the language they spoke. Mr. DuPont saw that I understood this, and so, I had his respect.

THE SHOWDOWN

Intrigued that this American spoke French, he asked me why I was in Belgium. Was I a businessman? Was I in the military? Did I serve in government? When I told him I was a pastor, his face froze and his eyes opened wide. “You’re a protestant? You’re a protestant pastor?” he asked incredulously.

With that, he turned away from me and made it clear, uncomfortably so, that he would no longer talk to me. He did not respond when I asked if there was a problem.

He continued with his work, up and down the stairs that led from the second floor to the basement. Obviously agitated, he continued working throughout the afternoon. I didn’t press him or follow too closely, but I stayed with him.

Then, it happened. We had returned to the place where we had begun, the radiator in my daughter’s upstairs bedroom. I stood by the door as he rested on all fours across the room in the corner. I can still see him as he turned his wrench one final time on the coupling that would seal the system. He paused, sighed heavily, rose to one knee, and turned to face me. Waving the wrench in my direction, pointing it to emphasize his words, he spoke. His face was flushed, and his eyes were filled with tears. Like a cornered cat, both rage and fear seem to possess him at the same time.

“So, you are a Christian?” His words were more accusation than question.

I nodded and said yes.

He quickly continued. Shaking his head and jabbing with the wrench in his hand, “No, no; you are a Christian—a real one. Someone who doesn’t just profess your faith, you practice it. You really believe in Jesus Christ, right? You really believe He is the only way to eternal life. You really believe only Jesus Christ can give life meaning and hope?”

I nodded again and said yes.

“Well then, Monsieur le protestant, Monsieur le pasteur, tell me the meaning of my life. What hope do I have? What reason do I have to go on living? Tell me. I’m married to a good woman. I have two great kids. I own my own business. But all I do is work. My life has no meaning, and I have no hope. I see no reason to go on living.”

He continued, “Don’t look at me that way. Don’t look at me that way. I’m not the only person like this. I know many people who feel just the same way I do, and if you can’t give me a reason to go on living, I’m going to take my life here and now today.” (I’m condensing a longer lament to its essence.)

I could see in his eyes that he was deadly serious. This was no game. I didn’t know how he would take his life, but his entire person told me he meant it. I didn’t know what was in the toolbox by his side, but I did know that he was bigger and stronger than I. There was no way I could physically stop him.

My heart was beating, my mind was racing. This would be challenging enough if it were happening in English, but it was all taking place in French. Only God could rescue this man because I surely couldn’t.
By faith, I reached out my right hand to him and began speaking calmly. Looking directly into Mr. DuPont’s eyes, I told him there was a God in heaven, a God who had created him with purpose, a God who loved him. God wanted him to know and live in that purpose. His life could have real hope as he placed his faith in Jesus Christ. (Again, I am condensing all I said to its essence.) Neither of us moved. Time seemed to stand still. I could almost hear my heart beating.

THE REDEMPTION

God’s grace filled the room, and Mr. DuPont, still trembling with emotion and tears on his cheeks, bowed his head and took a deep breath. He stood to his feet. I continued to talk with him and was able to convince him to go downstairs with me, where we could sit and talk further. He finally agreed.

At our dining room table, I learned that, like most French and French-speaking Belgians, he had been baptized Roman Catholic as an infant, gone through catechism, and taken first communion. But none of this meant anything to him; it was just a cultural ritual empty of meaning. I also learned the reason for his fear of me and his refusal to speak with me. He had been taught all his life that Protestants were cult members. Because I was a protestant pastor, I had to be a cult leader.

But the Spirit of God was at work in this encounter. Because of Mr. DuPont’s catechism, I had ground I could walk with him, a shared Emmaus Road. He believed in God, but a God removed from him and the world, a God cold and uncaring. But, with God’s help, I was able to walk him through to the life that is found only in Jesus Christ. God, the Holy Spirit, spoke to this man who had never had a personal faith in Christ. He left my house that day not only rescued from suicide, but redeemed in God’s eternal life. He left my house that day, not just my heating tech, but a brother and friend.

THE REVERBERATION

Sometime after this, Mr. DuPont began dropping by the house unannounced, which is something Belgians typically do not do. Sometimes, it was just to talk about life and the Lord. Other times, he was on a mission.

I would hear a knock on the door, and upon answering it, find Mr. DuPont announcing loudly that he was there to keep his appointment to repair my heating system. He knew, and I knew, that my heating system was in perfect working order – he had already seen to that. He knew, and I knew, that I had made no appointment. We both knew he had come to my house because he had someone he wanted me to talk to about Jesus. Entering my house, he would head to the basement, telling the person he brought to enjoy a cup of coffee with me while he worked on the system.

One day, Mr. DuPont brought a friend, a man in obvious emotional pain, every breath a groan. Tears filled his eyes. After we greeted each other, Mr. DuPont sent his friend to the truck on a pretext to retrieve a tool. While he was gone, Mr. DuPont told me that his friend had just received devastating news: the woman he lived with was dying. This condition in her brain had blinded her and left her in terrible pain. She was unable to bear any light. She had no appetite. After months of efforts, doctors could offer no hope. They sent her home to wait. They gave her medication to keep her comfortable until the end.

When Mr. DuPont learned of this, he told his friend that the best thing for him would be to get out of the house and spend the day at work with him. And so it was that Mr. DuPont brought his friend to our home that day.

I invited this man to sit down with me at our table for coffee. He thanked me, but told me he needed a cigarette (he was chain-smoking them through trembling hands) and did not want to smoke inside my home. And so, as Mr. DuPont “worked” on my heating system, his friend and I talked in my driveway in a typical misty Belgian rain (something very normal for Belgians). Praying, I probed gently, asking questions about his life. Desperate, he opened up to me and told me his story.

When he had finished, I told him I was a follower of Jesus and a pastor. I assured him God was able to heal his “wife” (the French usually say “woman” rather than “wife,” so what I actually said was “woman;” but where it sounds improper to us, it is proper in French). I told him I had seen God heal many people, including my family members and me. I told him God could do the same for his “wife.” I asked if he would allow me to pray with him there, asking God to heal her and reveal Himself to the two of them.

The man agreed and even seemed grateful. Standing in my driveway in the drizzle, I prayed for the two of them, asking God to reveal himself to them, heal her, and restore her to full health. I prayed that God would continue to draw this man into Himself as he began this new journey of faith in Christ. After we prayed, he thanked me sincerely. I assured him that my wife and I would continue to pray for them. With that, Mr. DuPont exited my garage. Goodbyes expressed, they climbed into their truck and drove away.

J’ESPERE BIEN!

Over the following weeks, my wife and I prayed for the couple’s salvation and this woman’s healing.

About three weeks later, I was at our local hardware store when, from across the store, I heard a male voice shouting my name: “Monsieur Baker! Monsieur Baker.” This was highly unusual as Belgian and French people are not given to shouting across stores. I turned to see who was calling my name, and to my surprise, it was my friend Mr. DuPont.

He almost ran to me, calling out, “Wait until you hear what happened! Wait until you hear!”

Gesturing like a cheerleader, he excitedly kept repeating, “You won’t believe what happened! You won’t believe what happened!”

Excitedly, Mr. DuPont told me that he had just heard from his friend, the man whose “wife” was dying. He had been sitting at his kitchen table that morning when she walked into the room. She wasn’t stumbling, but walking confidently. She wasn’t shielding her eyes from the light, but walking with her eyes wide open. He was stunned to see her, but thrilled beyond words. It was clear to both of them that she was completely healed. After crying and holding each other for who knows how long, they sat down that evening and shared a meal for the first time in weeks.

Mr. DuPont was smiling from ear to ear. I was ready to join him in shouting in that hardware store. I asked him if his friends knew that it was God who had worked this miracle.

Like a tent evangelist, he threw his hands high in the air and shouted out loud, “J’espère bien!” (Well, I certainly hope so!)

Subsequent doctor visits confirmed what we all knew to be true: God had indeed healed her.

WONDERS

The country of Belgium has one of the highest suicide rates in Europe. Our local doctor in Mons told us that the people of the region where we lived, the Borinage, were particularly plagued by this terrible despair. This cold fact took on a human face in the life of Mr. DuPont.

But this day, in a nondescript house in the Borinage, and in the weeks that followed, death gave way to life at the name of Jesus.

In Belgium, America, or anywhere, we never know how God will use a connection, a friendship, or even a service call to our house to rescue and redeem one person or more. It’s true for the missionary and it’s true for you.

Ultimately, Mr. DuPont’s story is proof again that we have not yet even begun to know the power of our great God and Savior.

The Psalmist wrote:

“Things that we have heard and known,
that our fathers have told us.
We will not hide them from their children,
but tell to the coming generation
the glorious deeds of the Lord, and his might,
and the wonders that he has done.” Psalm 78.3-4

Amen.

FINAL THOUGHTS

Let’s continue taking the Gospel of Jesus to all the world, just as He commanded (Matthew 28.18-20). Not suggested. Not invited. Not advised. As he commanded.

Let’s continue supporting missionaries overseas who assimilate not just into nations, but neighborhoods. They build relationships with their neighbors and shopkeepers. If they have children, they attend community schools and have friends on their street. These missionaries have paid the price to learn serious language skills, culture, local mindsets and needs. They know the ins and outs of their locales, and so, are uniquely ready to minister the Gospel to people who need Jesus Christ.

Let’s continue believing God for the supernatural. Not man-focused theatrics fabricated for social media fans and followers, but signs that see Jesus increase and the servant decrease. The seed of miracles is God’s Word proclaimed and believed. Therefore, as we believe God for the supernatural overseas and our lives, let’s set aside our “itching ears” sermonettes to “preach the Word,” deliver “complete teaching,” and declare “sound doctrine” that feeds “truth,” not “myths” to believers. Let’s fulfill our ministries (II Timothy 4.1-5). As we do, Jesus will fulfill His with signs following!

Let’s be ready in season and out of season to minister the Gospel to others. Let’s be prepared to respond to opportunity when it comes knocking because we live with our hands on the door. Extrovert or introvert, we are all called to be witnesses of Jesus and disciplers. By the power of His Spirit, each of us can do just that. With that in mind,

Let’s continue walking with those we win. I often hear of churches with big “front doors” and “back doors.” In other words, they are good at getting people to start attending church, but they are equally adept at seeing them slip away. Why? Jesus told us to make disciples, not grow churches. Discipleship is a never-ending process for a church where Jesus is its head. We come to Christ for salvation and, hopefully, begin the journey of discipleship with a more mature believer. Then, as we grow, we begin discipling others. This is the way of Jesus, the way He taught and modeled in the Gospels. This is the approach He gave us for reaching the World with His Gospel.

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“Of all vocations, surely the gospel ministry is the one whose paradigm is most radically formed by the dynamics of godly mentorship.” 

Stephen Baldwin