I close my eyes...

….and see them standing. A blur of figures sweeping over perpendicular bridges that cross the river—Hawthorne, Morrison, Burnside, and Steel—each bridge is brimming with bodies. Lines and huddles, a jumbled mass of youthful faces. Nomads. Each of them waiting to enter the city. Crowding the scaffolding like pebbles stacked high on a bed of toothpicks or twigs—almost ready to snap. The bridges are bending with the weight of young wanderers. No reason, no calling—just a yearning within them to flock where other Nomads walk. They lead by intuition and follow by impulse. They follow each other— a formation of faces suspended high above the river, each with a story and tale of their travels. Travels that brought them to this Mecca of sorts, this final destination reached by portals of bridges. Guitars strapped to backs, and boots cracked by heat— they are hairy and half-shaven, an assemblage of adventure seekers—musicians and writers, athletes and artists. All shapes and sizes, they are a decorative bunch, a daring throng of traveling twenty-somethings. Like colorful marbles they bob and roll their way over the bridges and into the city that welcomes them with enticing night lights, aroma of change, and the sweet luring hush that promises a Nomad something better to come.


Portland was recently listed in a magazine as one of the “top hottest cities to move to in your twenties”. And many have followed the call. The city is bursting with a wave of youthful influence touching everything in sight—from Portland’s emergence of popular music, to its flooded bar scenes downtown. Something about this laid-back Northwest city has called the attention of countless young adults and they are everywhere.

A few days ago, Cynthia and I sat in the over-sized armchairs at Starbucks to pray before I left for work. We both had a heavy burden to pray for Portland--a city that was unknown territory just months ago, but now is the place we call "home". We chatted a bit at how perplexing it is that we both ended up here--obviously providential as neither of us would have predicted Portland as our post-college stomping grounds. But we are here. And we are not alone. As we began praying for Portland, a city that is sliced by the confluence of the Willamette and Columbia rivers and connected by a series of bridges, I kept seeing a vivid picture in my mind. In it, I had an aerial view of the city. I was watching as huddled crowds of young people were flocking into the heart of downtown Portland by way of bridges. Every major bridge was plastered with packs of people. The picture zoomed in closer and I began to see faces. All of the faces had a lost-look, a wandering look, the look of Nomads in search of an ending. Each individual was incredibly unique, but each looked unfinished. It was as if they were entering Portland to seek completeness.

Maybe the picture I saw was a vision. Maybe it was just an imaginative painting engraved deep in my mind so that I wouldn't forget to pray for this city. I know that Portland is filled with wanderers waiting to be found, to be known by something or someone.

A week after I moved here I attended a church populated by five or six hundred Jesus followers, all under the age of thirty. They had spent an entire week fasting and praying for the revival of Portland. On the seventh day of their fast, they gathered at the highest point in Multnomah county, a park that overlooks every inch of the city of Portland. There they stood, hope-filled and hungry for a shaking awakening, anxious for God's encounter with this place. They held hands and gathered around a plaque that was set in place more than a century ago. The plaque read the story of a group of ministers that had gathered at the same place in the late 1800's, praying for a similar awakening revival to come to Portland. People say history always repeats itself. I believe God will awaken this city once more--but not because of the inherent law of history. He will come as the cries of desperation arise--humble prayers accompanied by the turning away from sin. I find it interesting that Portland is the "City of Roses"--arguably the most fragrant of flowers. How fragrant and sweet-smelling this city would be to our Heavenly Father if it was filled with the prayers of the saints. What would a city brimming with a youthful population be like if it was touched by the fresh power of God Himself?

I don't know why Portland remains such an attraction to young people. I don't know why they continue to wander...their faces lit with the hope of meeting something in this place. I like to think they are traveling with intent--intent that will be met with the surprise encounter of Jesus Himself. Nomads and wanderers finally arriving home.

2 Chronicles 7:14

"If my people, who are called by my name, will humble themselves and pray and seek my face and turn from their wicked ways, then will I hear from heaven and will forgive their sin and will heal their land."