JesusFreak727: Young Neighbors in Action 2018

We pulled into the city Sunday morning, paid $12 for parking and walked confidently out into the streets of San Francisco, knowing that we had a few minutes for tourism before we had to get to our mission headquarters where we'd be staying for the whole week. As we walked, we quickly became acclimated to the surroundings of just what exactly we were up against. Everywhere we turned, we were confronted with the faces of the homeless, the eyes of the drugged and the smell of aged urine. At times there was physical moaning from our sheltered Tri-Cities group as we took in the different smells of the slums.
When we got to the site where we'd be staying, we played some icebreakers and met a few people from the other groups. I think there was close to seventy of us altogether. I introduced myself to a young man named Hassan and thought nothing more of it- until the next day when a girl mentioned him in small groups. "Hey, Jacob," she said across the table. "Are you and Hassan brothers?"
"Hassan?" I asked, trying to remember which one he was. It came to me and I shook my head, chuckling. "No, we're not brothers." She seemed surprised at that answer but moved on in the conversation to other topics. Unfortunately, she had sparked a thought in my mind that didn't go away for the rest of the week. Two others asked me the same question before the day was over, and I began to think this could really be something. I talked to Hassan about it and he found it equally funny, so we began the plotting phase of our plan. The next day, a girl named Lauren asked if we were twin brothers, and we were ready. "Yes," we both responded at the same time. Her mouth dropped. "Ha! I knew it! You guys looked so similar." Hass looked at me and gave a knowing wink. I burst out laughing at just how easy this was. The act became more than just a facade, though, when Hassan's St. Kateri Tekakwitha group took the stage for daily site sharing. We made eye contact and he smiled. Then, as if perfectly on cue, we both winked at the other- with our left eye. That's when I became a believer that Hassan and I are actually biological brothers, despite my Italian background and his Arabic one.
The St. Kateri group went into Tenderloin for their mission work, one of the sketchiest parts of San Francisco. I would ask Hass about the things they saw that day, and he always had a funny story at the ready. "So we're parked at the masonic temple, right," he began. "We're doing a circle prayer and suddenly we see this mom and little kid walk by. This kid is like, maybe two years old. Anyway, they walk by and the mom bends down to say something, so we all listen. 'Remember now, son,' she starts, 'don't say the F-word.'" We both started laughing, thinking it ridiculous that a mother would have to tell her young child that. "So then we're walking along," Hassan continued, "and our youth minister is leading the way. Suddenly, some kid walks out of a bush in front of us. 'Hey bud,' our leader says, trying to be friendly. The kid stares at him and just says, 'I don't talk to strangers,' and walks back inside the bush." Behavior like this may be normal for a local, but for guys like us it was funny to dwell on the unconventional things of this weird city.
Our mission work involved going to a summer school program and giving the kid much-needed attention, as well as cleaning chairs, fridges and toys for the school. Later in the day we would head to the Archdiocese of San Francisco headquarters and write letters to prison inmates and their families as well as learn about something called the Restorative Justice program. This program is meant to help in the recovery process for offenders and victims of crime by teaching them how to get reintegrated into society and make amends. We created a video detailing the different steps that will be shared on the Archdiocese website and shown to people at retreats put on by Julio Escobar, the coordinator of Restorative Justice.
Tuesday night was the unexplainable highlight of everyone's week. It began with Adoration and ended with... well, I don't know exactly. Cade and I had just finished altar serving and hung our albs up when a kid rushed into the sacristy weeping. "Father, could you hear my confession?" The priest took him away and Cade and I looked at each other with wide eyes, knowing that something special had happened out there. We went and knelt down in different areas of the church, and I kept noticing a girl from our group crying and the others comforting her. Little did we know that these tears were all the Holy Spirit would need to set us on fire with an explosive revival. We all began crying for different reasons. A tear huddle began, our emotions bonding us closer than ever before. We went outside to pray before a statue of Mary and the girls left us to get blankets. During that time the guys held my hands as I told them about being unable to let go of what's going on with my dad right now. They cried with me and for me, and we let the Holy Spirit come in and fill us with love for Him and for each other. We headed back to our rooms, much later than curfew and talked about it late into the night. It was probably the first time our nighttime conversation hadn't revolved solely around girls, and they were the ones who had set off this whole experience in the first place.
On Friday we went to a site in San Francisco where a man had been murdered recently. We circled the spot and prayed over it with Julio and a priest, asking the Lord to reclaim that place of hate and death with His love and peace. As we were finishing, an old man walked by and turned to our group. "That's common here. Travel in packs and stay armed or you die." His brashness surprised us, but the weird thing was that he wasn't trying to scare us or ruin the moment of prayer. He was telling it like it is. Down there it's not about thriving and living life; it's about surviving and getting by. We were only in San Francisco for six days. Our goal was to see Christ in others and be Christ for others, and for our short stay, I think we succeeded. We realized that we can't change everything, that our efforts may turn out to be minuscule in the grand scheme of things. But I think the more important thing we took home is that it only takes one to make a difference. One smile on a kid's face that doesn't receive love when they get home. One tear shed by the prisoner that opens a letter saying someone cares and is praying for you. One circle prayer that shows our humanity, caring for and commemorating our dead. It's a lost art, service is. Sometimes it goes unappreciated. But what better way to show love for our savior then through sacrificing ourselves? It's the example he set, and although it may be small, we can take solace in the fact that he sees what we've done. There's nothing that could put a bigger smile on His face.

Ok, one last story. I couldn't fit it into the post anywhere else so unfortunately I have to ruin my perfect conclusion to tell it. We were at Oakland station waiting for our train, Saturday afternoon. Brian was sick and I had given up my water bottle so I needed to buy another one. I walk over to the vending machine; it's $2.25 for a bottle of Dasani water. Flipping through my wallet I see that all I have are twenties. Whatever. I put one in the cash slot and punch the button. My bottle comes out, so I grab it while I'm waiting for my cash back. Plink. I look up. Ok. I need like $17.75 back so I should be getting three quarters. Plink, plink. I almost reached in to grab them when I realized the quarters weren't stopping. Plink, plink, plink. They kept coming. Quarters galore, tens of them just raining from the vending machine. By the time it stopped I was 71 quarters richer. Walking back to the group I tried to stuff them in my wallet. "Guys," I started, "I think I did something dumb."

Love people.
Jacob