After lifting our hands, shouting hallelujah for exactly an hour and a half, we are now placed in the middle of a big crowd. We have to wait for the train to get home to the tiny room in the collective that Asta calls her home. About forty minutes of waiting feels like much right now.
Like any other coffee-icher Christian, I think it’s okey to kill these coming seconds at a café. For some reason, it’s like something comes over me halfway in line for one of these cofeeshops. I just don`t want coffee.
When in world history did this happen last?
We can go somewhere else? Asta looks at me, but shakes her head. Sure. There are a ton of eating places here. Lots of places to sit just to kill the time. All these people. All the stories that circle around us.
“If we have any coins left ?”
Suddenly a thin, young boy stands above us. He looks at us with an intense look. He has a red hooded sweater, and the hood is pulled well over some greasy hair. It has some length that hair. Spaghetti hair in a slightly brown color. A very big jacket. If there is something you often encounter here, It`s these homeless people.
We are Norwegians.Skeptical, and little wary on letting our money go to someone’s drug that probably destroys their lives more. Asta proposes to buy him some food instead, but he lifts up a coffee cup and a bag of pizza. He obviously has enough food. She thinks about a couple of minutes, but finds a note. She is a little sceptic.
Not because we dont want to help, but because we are pretty unsure whether this money actually helps. Asta clearly states that he must use them on something proper. Not drugs. He promises. Promises that he dont do drugs. He is just homeless. Jobless. Not an addict. Well. That is a promise we don`t exactly take for goof. Rather, on the contrary really.
But do you know what? It doesn`t matter.
It doesn`t matter to me if ninety percent of the words that flows out of him about a terrible childhood is true. It doesnt matter if he`s just an other good example of a meanipulative drug addict who needs that money for drugs.
Because I sincerely believe that once you’ve landed on the street you have not had it easy. Whatever the reason is. Then your life is actually not very cool. The last thing you need is a meeting with several distinguished people who look at you like a rat.
So we stand there with this boy. Time goes by. He says he is 21 years old. In fact, he is just another young adult. Just like us. Alone in this world, without the energy to think about the future. It hits me. It could be me. It actually did. He is so young and has given up life in a way. That despite the fact that this life has just begun.
Asta talks about everything and nothing. She keeps this little special conversation going. Tells him that he is loved. That he is not an orphan, because there is a father in heaven who loves him. Whether he chooses to believe it or not. Telles hum that he should not give up his dreams. It is going to be all right. Everything is going to be alright. I’m a little skeptical a few feet behind, and look at several of the outcasts who circle around us like vultures. They keep eye contact with the boy, and on several occasions they stand close to Astas`
bag while she is deeply busy with this conversation. I'm not so naive. I`m actually quite sure he is working with them.
They disappear gradually.
The conversation continues and continues. The weird thing is that the boy seems grateful. Thankful for someone actually taking their time to take this talk. Despite the fact that we did not give so much money, we spent a few minutes of our time. I am convinced that he needed it. Needed to be seen. Needed to express some opinions about this hopeless society without space for him.
I’m actually sure it meant a difference. Because when we say we must go to reach this train, he looks sad. For reals. He has talked a lot. We have listened. Smiled. Nodded. Agreed in that life is terrible, but reminded him that there is indeed hope.
“Remember, you are love. You are more than nothing. God sees you and he is not far away.”
He is about to give both of us a hug, but we are a little too quick on our way. He thanks for the money and for the talk. I think the last really was what meant the most. My point is that we all tend to be too quick to judge. Too quick to put in box and hurry on. Sometimes just a few nice words are needed to make a whole difference.
This is church for me. Not just lifting your hands and shouting hallelujah. Not just burying us in the four walls we mention as a church. But to see people and show love like Jesus has said we should do. How he did. The way he had done if he was the one who met an outcast on a Sunday morning on the train-station.