What was so long overdue is now a few weeks past. All the planning and miles and checked bags en route to Europe brought us to you. You existed long before we came over, but now we have the faces and the stories to remind us.
Some of you had waited for years just for the opportunity to circle a date on your calendars, looking for a memory or an autograph. A handful of you traveled for hours for a chance to meet and greet. Many of you were surprised to see us there or were caught off guard by our presence, our name, or our message.
I heard cheers from some of you as I spoke about our mission. Thank you.
I accidentally ran into a couple of you doing drugs in the bathroom, but later you took the time to read through our Info Book. I hope you don’t feel trapped; I hope you can believe with me that better days are ahead.
One of you came with your dad. You knew English far better than I will ever know German, and you apologized for stumbling over a foreign language. But it was your silent joy that spoke volumes. We believe in you.
To those of you at Brainstorm Festival who hung out in the cold for far too long and helped me hang the banner on the wet colonnades: thanks for the company. You took so many of the Dutch info cards, which will no doubt find their way into the right hands. Our footprint in the Netherlands is exactly your shoe size.
More than a few of you spoke of your friends and loved ones who are carrying heavy burdens this winter. Remember the other shoulders that are there to help bear that weight.
You painted your shoes, and you sat on trains, and you shared your tattoos. You took my book, and you cried, and we hugged. We laughed at our accents as we tried to say “squirrel/eichhörnchen,” and you promised to give it another try or another day. You challenged us to come back soon.
Those nights had purpose because you were there and could not have happened without you. Your community has a gift in the form of your life.
Every night of our brief tour of Europe, Oh, Sleeper performed a song that says, “I pass the spark as it races to the rest of them.” To me, it’s a striking description of hope. Regardless of the context in which we met, we had a wild anticipation of sharing something, of passing something on, and that spark of hope flew between us.
We hope to return soon, and we hope to see you when we do. We know we missed many of you, but we’ll try to catch you next time. Until then, you will go places we could never reach, and you will hold the conversations that demand more time than we can individually offer. It’s your hands that pick up the phone and your arms that squeeze life back into your loved ones. There is work to be done, but we were born to fight.
—Chad