It’s been about three weeks since I arrived here at YWAM San Francisco, here in the heart of San Francisco. I’ve been acclimating well, getting used to the atmosphere of the city, the people of the city, the feeling

of the city. I’m loving every bit, enveloped in the lives of every stratisphere, a part of the lives of the ‘least of these’, here to help, here to try the best I can to be Jesus in a broken world. You’ve just arrived in San Francisco. You walk down the busy city streets, smelling the delicious foods, seeing all the high class fashion stores, the sounds and sights of the street. Make your way toward my neck of the woods, you’ll here the noise get a little more noisy, the streets seem a little more choppy. Suddenly, you may not know what manner of things could be going on around you. Is that guy smoking a crack pipe? Right here? You may want to get out of there as soon as you can. You see the sign for YWAM San Francisco. Then, ever so suddenly, from these confused streets, the open the door to a burst of life. Though destitution may seem to be a small scent mingled in the atmosphere, you can’t help but here the strong tones of ragtime, hustling and bustling heavy and hard from an old piano, old men with wind and age leathered skin pounding down pieces on a leather chess board, pool and pingpong all about. Some people wake up to Folgers in the morning, but every day, this is my alarm: the sound, like a breaking wall, coming against the hurt and confusion of this dark part of town. This place, where man and woman can come alike, to spend time away from addiction, from neglect and a hard night on the streets, and be people. This is our Ellis Room, and I wouldn’t give up the melodies pounded out, and the voices shouting loud for anything I could think of. This is a little piece of my home.

Story by Jon Owen