The group pulled itself up off the floor and crawled into the vans as the dawn broke. We had an uneventful trip back down the peninsula to the San Jose airport.
Then we quickly got the vans turned around, found some coffee for the drivers and eventually we found our way to the San Francisco airport where our flight would be waiting. Group ticketing could have been better handled by the airport staff. We knew something was wrong when Chris French was addressed as Mr. Montana, and the passenger manifest was really a copy of the the 1987 San Francisco 49ers roster. Eventually, all received boarding passes, most for air travel. Bags were tagged and placed on the belts, never to be seen again, and the group was herded to security, where the line stretched back just past the Oakland church we had left just a couple of hours ago.
Thankfully, we had a TSA agent who had acquired some problem-solving skills along the way. He made a call or two and took our group to another scanning location, saving us and the miles of travellers behind us valuable time. We thanked him just before he was taken away in an unmarked TSA van with license plates registered in Nunavut Province, Canada.
We were able to get through the security scan with no major issues, though we were forced to lay down on the belt and go through the x-ray tunnel usually reserved for briefcases and purses. We moved quickly to our gate, took a head count, and realized that there was no plane at the gate. The gate agent explained that they were looking for a new plane for our flight. In retrospect, this is humorous, as I have a mental picture of Continental officials knocking on the Delta hangar door and asking to borrow a plane, like when you are moving apartments and need to borrow your buddy's pick up truck. "We promise we won't scratch it, we're only going to Houston, and we'll make sure the tank is full when we bring it back." And you would think they would try to make it up to us by borrowing a 747 or A380, but no, they went the cheap route and grabbed another 737, which has ample legroom if you built like Ken and Barbie. By which I mean, you are 12 inches tall.
So our 63 teenagers and a dozen or so bone-weary adult leaders lounged around the terminal gate while the plane was made ready. I became aware that it was time to go home when one our students came up and asked my name and offered me a sandwich and asked if he could pray for me. He realized it was me only after I addressed him by name.
But God was again gracious--once we were boarded safely, I found that there was NO ONE SITTING NEXT TO ME. 8 inches of extra room and three ounces of ginger ale. Heaven on earth, rivaled only by the joy of being home together as a family again.
Overall, this was an outstanding experience. I loved exploring the city. I really loved YWAM's mission and learning more about their ministry. It was a joy to see the mutual respect: the respect shown by the YWAM staff and our kids to the homeless population, as well as the respect that almost all of these people have for the organization--they know that they are loved. YWAM is truly demonstrating the love of Christ to those who need it. It was a privilege to meet and talk to so many. To pray for folks like Michael, and Kevin, and Joanie, and Calvin, and Tyson, Maude, Robert, and Clara. To listen to their stories, and let them know that they are loved. I believe that the kids that were with us came away with the same feeling. I pray they will continue to have that open heartedness toward those in our own city.
But almost better than the actual work we did was the love that developed among the students for each other (the Philos kind of love... there was a ban on anything more!). Many had not spoken more than a couple words to each other in the short time they met for Sunday school or youth group. Several didn't know each other at all. Yet when forced to be together in close quarters or on the street together, deep and lasting Christian friendships were formed. That is a joy to see.
So sleep was awful (at one point I noticed many of the homeless on the streets had what looked like better mattresses than I did, and I was ready to barter), the kids complained like teens do, but not for long, and food was not the best, but those were not the details that counted. I believe we left our hearts in San Francisco (and probably a pillow, a pocket knife, and maybe a t-shirt or two).
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