Wild Hope

On Wednesday night sullen skies stretched over the dreary, orange colored bricks of Pioneer Square. We walk—bags on shoulders, past the Max tracks down Yamhill St, looking, searching, and then stopping next to the Pioneer courthouse. Lounging by the eight by four pools of concrete animals are four teenagers. Wearing spiked leather and rolling cigarettes, they lean up against their heavy, worn backpacks. They tell us they have just got in from Seattle. Next they are going to San Diego. Then To New Orleans. Then back to Portland. We ask if they need anything. Sometimes they say yes. “Yes we do,” they say. “Money or booze?”

“Sorry,” we reply. “We do not have these things to offer.”

What we do have to offer though, is socks. Socks and sewing kits. Socks and cigarettes. Socks and q tips. Socks and band-aids. Socks and friendship. Friendship and relationship.
Sometimes they say no. They are happy the way they are.
What we do on Wednesday nights at Wild Hope is classified as outreach. We stick our hands in bags, we pull them out, we pass them goods. We listen to them. We talk with them. We reach out to them. But as we are reaching out, they are reaching in. Reaching into our hearts and giving them a good pump or two. Reminding us that life is about more than 9-5 jobs and conforming to rules society has deemed supreme. They are known by some as the dregs of society, the outcasts, the cracked out scum, the alcoholic rabble. Bums. Hobo’s. Punks. We say they are our brothers, fellow humanity. We no better and they no worse. But if they ask, we tell them. Yes, we tell them. About this Wild Hope that we have. This Wild Hope that there is more beyond this life. That all the struggle, the writhing, the hurting is “just for now.” We tell them that we hope in what is not seen. That it is wild. That it is freedom. That it is peace. We do not pass out tracts. We pass out relationship. Bits and pieces of us.

Some nights are darker than others. Sometimes people die. Sometimes people overdose. Sometimes people get arrested. But other nights are filled with laughter. With the sharing of stories, the exchange of ideas. Sometimes we are humbled when we offer help and they reply that they love their life-hopping trains around the country, playing guitar, peddling for quarters. They have chosen this lifestyle because normal life is way too boring, there is no adventure, no danger. Sometimes we offer to help them get a job and they just shake their head silently, as if we have no idea what we are talking about.

Between the hours of six and nine on Wednesday nights you can find us. Walking. Conversing. We end each night with some prayer and community time because we have come to realize that we are not only valuable because of the things we do for God’s kingdom but because we are God’s children. So we end each night of outreach, reaching into each other’s lives. Reminding ourselves that we are not machines, that we have value simply because God says we do. We pray for each other and then exit. Exit in body, but not in mind. There is simply too much breath on Wednesday nights to forget about.