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  The flight was scheduled to leave between 8 and 10 p.m., but just like everything in this evacuation, the exact timing was hard to pin down. The departure time kept slipping as the company worked to obtain flight permissions from air authorities in Erbil and Košice, Slovakia. Regardless, we planned to begin the loading process around 2:30 p.m.

  The continuous changes required daily (and hourly) updates of the master schedule, passenger manifests, checklists, and information sheets. We had to ensure that everyone was on the same page and knew where they needed to be and what they needed to do. The next few hours would require us to be as organized as possible, but as with all complex operations, it was impossible to anticipate every contingency.

  For example, as group one began to assemble in the courtyard, one of Father Douglas’s assistants realized that everyone’s passports were still in the safe. They should have been passed back out that morning, but in the press of business, we forgot to confirm that they’d been distributed. The next forty minutes were a mad rush to get those passports into the right hands. And that was time that had not been built into the schedule.

  Then once the luggage trucks and minibuses began to arrive at Mar Elia around 2:30, we realized that the logistics company we’d paid to handle local transport requirements had provided smaller minibuses than those we’d reserved. This meant our group would have to squeeze tightly into three vehicles that were far too small for the number of people we were transporting. Typical Middle Eastern bait and switch. You pay for one thing and get another.

  Despite the passport snafu and the tiny buses, I was so excited to finally be heading for the airport that I couldn’t resist snapping a few pictures and texting them to my prayer group. After all, their prayers had gotten us to this moment.

  [Image sent: Photo of travelers gathering in Mar Elia courtyard]

  December 10, 3:20 p.m. / 7:20 a.m. EST

  [Image sent: Photo of luggage being loaded onto a truck]

  December 10, 3:21 p.m. / 7:21 a.m. EST

  As soon as she received the pics, my aunt Mary responded.

  Is today the day?

  December 10, 3:22 p.m. / 7:22 a.m. EST

  With renewed optimism, I replied.

  Yes, I feel so emotional.

  December 10, 3:22 p.m. / 7:22 a.m. EST

  Then I sent her a picture of the families saying good-bye to one another, and of a little girl clutching her doll. The looks on their faces said it all.

  [Image sent: Photo of people bidding farewell to each other. Those left behind are crowded behind the courtyard fence, watching the travelers get in line to board the buses.]

  December 10, 3:38 p.m. / 7:38 a.m. EST

  [Image sent: Photo of little girl holding her baby doll, ready to leave Erbil]

  December 10, 3:38 p.m. / 7:38 a.m. EST

  A little more than an hour later, I sent the text I’d been waiting to send for four days.

  On our way to airport now

  December 10, 4:53 p.m. / 8:53 a.m. EST

  The fact that we had made it to this point was a miracle. But despite the progress of the last twenty-four hours, we were still cognizant of the remaining obstacles we faced, any of which could throw off the evacuation. The journey was not over yet.

  The families boarded the three passenger buses swiftly and systematically, even though the vehicles were smaller than the ones we’d reserved. As I glanced at Joseph and Father Douglas, their faces showed focus, determination . . . and sheer stress as they hurried from bus to bus to ensure that all 149 passengers were accounted for and that the luggage trucks were lined up and ready to depart the compound.

  To the members of our group, the looming evacuation was a fait accompli. On one bus, the Iraqis were singing, clapping their hands, and doing all they could to lessen the emotional impact of leaving their homeland. On the other buses, group members were more pensive, the expressions on their faces reflecting a mix of sadness, relief, and cautious optimism.

  But Father Douglas, Joseph, and I couldn’t relax yet. There were too many unknowns, too many trip wires that needed to be cleared before the plane lifted off the runway. If living and working in the Middle East had taught us anything, it was to expect the unexpected. And we were significantly behind schedule, which rendered us more vulnerable to the potential obstacles ahead.

  I climbed back to the third row of the SUV. Joseph and our logistics support person sat in front of me. Father Douglas was in the passenger seat, next to the driver. Though I might have appeared stoic as our vehicle pulled out of the compound, my mind was spinning, my hands were shaking, and my heart was racing as I wondered whether we would clear the airport’s security system in time.

  Because Iraq is considered an active war zone and the Erbil airport is within thirty kilometers of the front lines with ISIS, the airport is classified as a high-threat area. Therefore, the airport’s security is one of the tightest in the world. To prevent car bombs from being detonated against such an essential facility, passengers are not permitted to drive up to or park at the airport, so we had to clear multiple layers of security before we could reach the terminal. The entire evacuation was riding on our ability to pass through these final checkpoints quickly. At any point while on the airport property we could be questioned, delayed, or turned away, thus threatening the success of the entire operation.

  The first checkpoint is where initial security screening of travelers takes place. All passengers are stopped there and waved into a screening area. Vehicles and luggage are searched by officers with police dogs specially trained to identify explosives and explosive precursors. Once passengers clear the first checkpoint, they are permitted to drive to the second security perimeter. This checkpoint funnels ticketed passengers into a special loading zone located about a mile away from the airport. The passengers are dropped off by loved ones or allowed to park their cars here in a fenced-off and carefully contained area. Passengers then go through additional screening before their luggage is loaded onto official airport transit buses, which then take passengers and their luggage to the airport, depositing them at the main entrance. It is a lengthy and time-consuming process under any condition, but because we were trying to transport 149 extremely edgy, highly emotional people and were already running behind schedule, let’s just say the tension was ratcheted up a few extra notches.

  Bottom line, we needed to avoid any unnecessary scrutiny by airport officials. We didn’t want to give anyone a chance to question the purpose of our travel or to hold up the group. We weren’t doing anything wrong, but this was the Middle East, so it didn’t matter. If officers didn’t like the way you looked or the way you answered a question, they could ask you to step aside for extra scrutiny. We couldn’t afford to run into either a difficult security officer, who might take pleasure in thwarting our evacuation, or a confused one, who might simply ask too many probing questions.

  Because most of the people in our group had never traveled and were feeling the extreme stress of leaving their homeland behind, they had a hard time remembering to identify themselves as IDPs rather than refugees. People do not become refugees until they leave their country of origin. Technically, then, our group was composed not of refugees but of IDPs, who are free to travel anywhere, as long as they have the appropriate travel documents and valid visas. The travel of refugees, on the other hand, can be halted.

  When we had playacted with the Iraqis to be sure they answered questions correctly while going through immigration and security lines, several tripped up. When we said, “Are you a refugee?” they accidentally answered yes. They didn’t understand the technical or legal difference between a refugee and an IDP, but if they answered incorrectly when questioned by authorities, it could throw off the entire evacuation.

  The fewer opportunities there were to answer these questions, the better.

  No security officer wants to be the person responsible for something going wrong, and most would rather be safe than sorry. In this type of bureaucracy, everyone w
ants someone else to make the decision, which relieves them of any responsibility (and eventual blame) if something goes awry.

  Joseph and I had attempted to do an end run around these obstacles. Before we’d arrived in Iraq, Joseph had obtained the name of Erbil International Airport’s chief of security and put Father Douglas in touch with him to ask if he would be willing to help us out. Now Father Douglas did not have a preexisting relationship with the senior ranking military official, and since he wasn’t being introduced to him by a trusted intermediary, the odds of the general’s agreeing to our request were not great. But once again, God had provided, and the general agreed to allow Father Douglas’s convoy to bypass both checkpoints and drop off passengers directly at the airport terminal.

  Father Douglas provided the general with details of the convoy, including vehicle descriptions and license plate numbers. The general told Father Douglas that our convoy needed to arrive at the checkpoints no later than 4 p.m., and he would advise the guards on that shift to expect us. He had given them instructions to let our vehicles drive straight up to the terminal to unload. He stressed the importance of arriving on time because there would be a shift change at 4 p.m., and the general could not ensure that his instructions would be shared with the next set of soldiers and security officers.

  Getting this kind of permission was no small miracle. The general really had to trust the priest, whom he had met only over the phone. He had to be absolutely certain that no one in the eleven-vehicle convoy posed a threat to Kurdish authorities or to the airport. That’s a lot of trust in a part of the world where people rarely confer trust on others—especially ones they’ve never met. The general responded to Father Douglas’s request with such enthusiasm it surprised us. It almost sounded too good to be true.

  Unfortunately, thanks to the passport snafu, we had fallen more than an hour behind schedule. On top of everything else, we had run headlong into rush-hour traffic. As our convoy moved slowly through the streets now clogged with cars, minibuses, motorcycles, and pedestrians and as our vehicles became separated by the snarled traffic, our anxiety increased. The tension was palpable. But then, so was the energy of our prayer warriors back home.

  Even though we were in Iraq, thanks to the wonders of cell phone and Internet connectivity, we were firmly tethered to family, friends, and people we had never met, who were bathing our every move in prayer. As our mission unfolded, my direct contacts had passed on word of our progress to their friends, family members, coworkers, well-wishers, Sunday school classes, churches, home groups, and intercessory prayer partners, so that they, in turn, could pray for us in real time. Many of these people, a group of about seventy, had volunteered to pray for the project since its inception and had seen it through from the beginning when we had no idea what was possible.

  I’m not one to overspiritualize things, but if ever I sensed that actions on earth were being deeply affected by what was going on in the spiritual realm, this was the time. What I felt that day was stronger and more real than anything I could see. What happened in the heavens was directly impacting what we were experiencing on the ground.

  Once the lead vehicles pulled out of the busy city streets and merged onto the massive highway that would take us toward the airport, we pulled over on the side of the road in order to regroup. We had to wait five minutes for the remaining minibuses and luggage trucks to catch up and for the convoy to get back into alignment. Once we got the thumbs-up that every member of the convoy was accounted for and the final security vehicle had taken up the rear, we slowly pulled out for the final leg of the move to the airport.

  What happened once the eleven-vehicle convoy approached the outer perimeter of the airport seemed to occur in slow motion. Each member of the ridiculously long convoy turned—one by one—off the highway and onto Airport Road. In stark contrast to the intense stress we were feeling, the sun was setting peacefully beside the airport, illuminating the darkened horizon with washes of red, pink, purple, and orange. It offered a serene backdrop to the drama unfolding in our midst.

  Our vehicles bounced along the road, moving slowly toward the historic event, which up until this moment had seemed so elusive. The burden to bring this evacuation to its conclusion weighed heavily on our shoulders. We had the hopes and dreams of 149 precious souls pinned on our ability to navigate these final moments with wisdom and clarity.

  As we approached the first checkpoint, it was strangely silent in our SUV. We were concentrating so intently that nobody said a word to one another. I think everyone was praying, asking God to remove any remaining obstacles, to make the path straight. At this point, there was nothing more we could do to affect the outcome of the situation. Our final move to the airport was squarely in the hands of God.

  We had choreographed and rehearsed our movements to be sure we had the timing down and the logistics thoroughly thought out, and we had tried to consider every contingency. But despite our best efforts, we had arrived at the first checkpoint late—much too late—and we all knew it.

  It was 5:25 p.m. when we came to a halt at the first checkpoint. The driver rolled down the windows, and Father Douglas, sitting forward in the passenger seat, identified himself to the military officer. We all held our collective breath. Has the change in guard already occurred? Will this officer know who we were? Will the general’s promise stand?

  Anticipation hung in the air like a thick fog. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t move. Please, God, please, Lord . . . please let us through . . .

  The officer smiled and motioned for us to turn into the security check area. Oh no! No, no, no! There had been a shift change, and this officer had not gotten the memo. Joseph quickly interrupted. “Sir, we’re on the list. We have special permission from General █████ to go straight to the terminal.”

  The look on the officer’s face was unmistakable. He had no idea who we were. Not breaking eye contact with Joseph, he picked up his secure radio and called in to find out if we had, indeed, been given special permission to proceed.

  Tension continued to build as a line of cars accumulated behind us, held up by our massive convoy. Frustrated that we were blocking airport traffic, a second officer standing in front of our vehicle started to wave at us, directing our driver to turn right into the security zone.

  We knew that once we entered that area, we could be stuck there for a while trying to sort out the mess. We couldn’t afford to give anyone a chance to second-guess the wisdom of permitting wholesale access of the airport to a convoy big enough to bring the Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circus to town. It’s one thing to hear that there will be eleven vehicles, but it’s another to actually see that many SUVs, minibuses, and small trucks headed toward one of the biggest targets in Kurdistan—with a full camera crew, no less. We couldn’t afford for these guys to grow impatient or suspicious, change their minds, and rescind the special arrangement we’d worked out with the general.

  Our hearts were pounding. Were we going to be sidelined, or would God intervene? As our vehicle slowly rolled forward and our driver reluctantly began to turn the wheel to comply with the officer’s instructions, the gentleman on the radio turned and gave the other officer a thumbs-up. Joseph quickly yelled at the driver, “Go straight! Go straight!”

  Seeing the thumbs-up, the second officer stepped aside and motioned for us to go straight, allowing us to skip the checkpoint that would have required a thorough K9 check of all 150-plus people and their luggage. By the grace of God and the skin of our teeth, we had cleared the first major hurdle.

  But we hadn’t crossed the finish line yet. The second checkpoint was the most critical. It was the official airport loading zone that relied on airport buses to take travelers to the main terminal. We knew the general had cleared us with the first checkpoint, but what about the second? What if that guard had changed too?

  Once again, we held our breath, the vehicle full of desperate prayers and nervous energy. We approached the stop sign slowly with our window
s rolled down, ready to explain who we were, but instead of asking questions, the officers waved us right through. We were in shock. Everyone in the van let out a collective sigh of relief. We didn’t know how or when they got word that our convoy had been given special permission to drive directly to the terminal, but the biggest remaining obstacle—and the one that had the greatest chance of throwing off the evacuation—was now behind us.

  My hands still shaking, I texted,

  This is huge—they let us through this massive security perimeter where most can’t go!

  December 10, 5:27 p.m. / 9:27 a.m. EST

  Granted, this was the Middle East. We may have made it through both checkpoints, but there was always a chance that something could still go wrong. Not wanting to draw undue attention to our group and to mitigate concerns other security officers might have if they saw a throng of vehicles idling at the entrance, Joseph decided to have three vehicles unload at a time. The rest would wait in a nearby employee parking lot until Joseph called them up. By the grace of God, we had made it this far. We weren’t taking any chances.

  Father Douglas and I were deposited at the unloading zone to help the travelers disembark from the vans and check in. Father Douglas was stationed near the curb. He helped members of our group exit the microbuses, claim their luggage from the corresponding truck, place their bags on luggage carts, and head into the terminal. My job was to interface with airport officials and employees at the airline’s check-in counter and answer questions as families lined up. Most of the people in our group had never flown before or been inside an airport, so they had no idea how things were supposed to work.

  Accompanied by the first few families, I walked inside to find the appropriate check-in counter. We walked past several lines before my eyes caught a glimpse of the word I was looking for. There it was: A monitor hung over the last airline counter with the name of our final destination: Košice. That’s when it hit me. The evacuation was no longer a vague possibility. It was real; it was happening. My eyes filled with tears, but I quickly blinked them back, trying to keep it together. The word Košice might as well have been Freedom or Deliverance, it represented so much to these travelers.