That’s why this month I’m sharing an article I wrote in response to the vicious and dangerous lies that the Texas Attorney General is spreading about the Catholic faith-based Annunciation House and its Executive Director Ruben Garcia. It’s something I’m definitely passionate about because this is personal to me.
Ruben Garcia, founder and director of Annunciation House, a network of migrants shelters in El Paso ,Texas, speaks with the media during a news conference, Friday, Feb. 23, 2024. Garcia is reacting to the lawsuit filed by Texas Attorney General Ken Paxton that claims the Annunciation House “appears to be engaged in the business of human smuggling” and is threatening to terminate the nonprofit’s right to operate in Texas. (AP Photo/Andres Leighton)
But what’s happening in Texas is not unusual. Extremist politicians have infiltrated not only states, but the U.S. Congress, and are creating their own reality, and their own definitions of words like “immigrant,” “Catholic faith-based organization,” and “NGO” (nongovernmental organizations), and trying to force the rest of us to go along with them. Either through lies or laws they enact.
I used to think that practicing one’s faith or beliefs, practicing acts of kindness and mercy, were protected as one of my freedoms in the United States. Not sure I believe that anymore.
Dorothy Day, whose quote I use here, was a convert to Catholicism. She practiced her faith every day, including searching her own heart for her failings and weaknesses. She was humble and selfless. She, too, always put the other first. But she was labeled a socialist and a Communist in her day.
The abuse and twisting of language hasn’t changed. But it’s gotten bolder, more vicious, and more dangerous.
So be on alert. Because it soon migh be unlawful to be kind and compassionate towards the marginalized, the homeless, the immigrant, and the refugee. Some states, like Texas, are certainly working hard at making it so.
He rolled around the Sprouts parking lot in his wheelchair, one leg extended, the other absent underneath the loosely hanging grey pant leg. I noticed him first, and moved to the next aisle, heading for my car. But he was quick, obviously adept at getting himself around on the streets. As soon as he asked for cash, I looked away, offering instead a knee-jerk “not today.” But as I walked off with a bag filled with unnecessary groceries, I relented. It’s true, these were items I had bought on sale, but most of them were indulgences, really, like the jar of Silly Cow hot chocolate and the organic lotion bar, the tin of Gingerbread tea and the navel oranges to add to the half dozen already waiting for me at home.
“You can give the guy a buck, for God’s sake, Pauline.”
And so begins my piece recently published in NCR – a vulnerable and perfect example of my false self, or lower nature, at work. A piece that reveals the self-awareness and humble willingness it takes to meet the not-so-nice places within myself. A willingness to observe myself honestly. And not be afraid of what I see.
Thankfully, that’s what happened when I witnessed my reaction to this homeless man asking for money. A man who had placed himself a little too close for comfort. And then reacted in a most ungrateful manner that set me off.
In publishing the piece on this sensitive subject of homelessness, the NCR editor was careful to remove some words that might offend. Words like “distressing” and “pissed.” But, in my limited sight at the time, distressing is how I initially saw this man. And pissed is what I clearly felt when he asked for an unreasonable amount of money upon my return.
Honestly, I believe most of us have these negative reactions to people who make us feel uncomfortable. People who don’t meet our expectations.
The gift is being able to pause and observe yourself in the midst of it. The gift of grace helped me do that.
I returned to my car and retrieved one of the single dollar bills I’d learned to keep in the pocket of my door so I’d be prepared at the corner stoplight where the growing number of homeless stationed themselves. I was accustomed to seeing people asking for money, but usually not this close. And the man in the wheelchair was not someone I recognized from the usual community. He had ventured far beyond the perimeters of the traffic light corner, wheeling himself closer and closer to the Sprouts entrance and exit doors, certain to catch the attention of shoppers before they got into their cars and approached the light.
“Here,” I said, as I handed him the dollar. And then, as if trying to explain my return, “I had this in my car.”
He looked at the bill, his face a fist of wrinkled displeasure. He not only didn’t smile or thank me, but scorned the offering.
“C’mon,” he scowled. “Give me $100.”
I must have blinked, maybe even jolted in place. “I don’t have $100,” I said, feeling a little riled at his rudeness.
“Well, how about $25 then?”
“How about you just take the dollar?” And I walked off, regretting my attempt to give anything at all and feeling simultaneously prideful and gullible as my negative inner talk got the best of me.
Until I paused to unlock my car door.
Wait. Who was I doing this for anyway? For myself? To receive an expectant “thank you” and a smile of appreciation? To feel good about my little act of charity? Or was it truly an act of kindness for a person in need in front of me. A man who may not know how to be thankful or kind. A man whose life I knew nothing about.
Suddenly, my imagination took over. It was as if Jesus were talking to me through this stranger’s face.
Can you still love me when I look like this? When I act like this? When I don’t meet your expectations?
As Jesus’ sweet voice came through the face of this man, I realized what was being asked of me. To see with different eyes. To love with the heart of God.
My heart softened, even though the man’s scowling countenance did not. He appeared before my imagination just as disheveled and distasteful as before. But the Christ within him now shone in a way that my judging self would not have been able to see. There was a warm spark buried within him that layers of pain and woundedness concealed.
True, I had to put my prideful ego aside. But wasn’t this my intention? To discover You in all your many disguises? And You poked me right here in the supermarket parking lot. In the dark shadow of a one-legged man slumped in a wheelchair on an ugly blacktop with engines idling all around, car fumes emitting into my lungs and, instead of angelic choirs, the clanking sound of shopping carts crashing into a queue.
Not at all what I expected.
“You want to love me better?” You ask. “I’m right here.”
[A note of of thanks to Pixabay photographers reidy68, stevepb, and anwar Ramadhan]
Every once in a while new folks come to town and remind me what I love about El Paso. Whether it’s someone volunteering for a year with the Annunciation House network or a college or church group wanting to experience a weeklong border orientation, people who visit El Paso for the first time always leave having been surprised by what they’ve discovered and changed by the experience.
This time her name was Theresa.
She came to El Paso, along with two other women, for several weeks of orientation with the Maryknoll lay missioner program before she was to leave on assignment in Kenya. Maryknoll is a Roman Catholic organization that accompanies people in foreign countries living on the margins. It promotes nonviolence, justice, compassion, and care for the earth. For years Maryknoll offered its orientation in New York. But this year they moved it to El Paso, which, for Theresa and her friends and family, was a concern.
Somehow going to Kenya didn’t seem to be as much of an issue.
When they discovered Theresa was headed for the southern border, her friends warned, “You won’t be safe there. El Paso is a mess.”
And she believed it, too.
After all, most Americans only know about El Paso through the news or social media, the sound bites that refer to “illegal invasions,” “criminal caravans,” and “drug cartels” flowing like wild, unmanageable streams through the Rio Grande into the U.S. TV images show poorly dressed, brown-skinned people cozying up on downtown streets under Red Cross blankets and makeshift homesteads. Or lining up outside Sacred Heart Church for the luncheon meal.
From what’s presented on your screen, it’s easy to think things are crazy and unsafe in El Paso.
Until you spend some time here.
Like I have. Here I am mashing potatoes as I join some of my many friends in preparing Sacred Heart’s annual Thanksgiving meal for the poor and the migrants.
It’s been nearly 10 years since I first came to El Paso to volunteer. More than 7 since I left my Virginia home and moved here. So I was anxious to hear what Theresa had to say about this community I easily came to love.
Tall and white, Theresa stands out in El Paso. She’s a minority here, as am I. She’s also older and has lived in various U.S. states, so she’s got some experience with different types of communities.
During their six weeks with us, Theresa and her little group participated in local events and ministries on both sides of the border. They visited some of the many humanitarian organizations, went to migrant shelters, listened to folks accompanying the marginalized, and participated in the everyday life of the culture.
As she was nearing the end of her stay, we gathered at a friend’s home, and I asked about her experience.
“El Paso is such a gentle place,” she offered.
The word “gentle” struck me. I’d not heard that adjective used to describe El Paso before.
She explained how she had thought her rural community back in Kentucky was the gentlest and warmest community she’d ever known.
Until she came to El Paso.
“People are even gentler and kinder here.”
She gave me one example that sounded very familiar.
Needing to buy some groceries last week, she’d gone to the local Albertsons with only $23 cash to spend. No credit card. When she got to the checkout, she realized she’d not estimated her costs well, because the total was $25 and change. She explained her situation to the cashier and asked to remove some items.
“Hold on,” the cashier said. “I’ve got my Albertson’s card. I can apply it to your bill and I bet that’ll take care of it.”
But even with the card, her new total was $23.57. Still more than she had on her.
Then the bagger stepped in. “I can take care of that,” he said. And he dished into his pocket for the needed change.
Theresa left the store with everything she’d intended to buy and genuine gratitude for the kindness of these two strangers.
“I couldn’t believe how both of them stepped in to help me,” she said. “I don’t know of anywhere else in the U.S. where this would happen.”
I heard the surprise and delight in her voice. And I was delighted with her.
Because, at a time when our country is sourly divided, when we teeter on the verge of denying “outsiders” the basic right to seek asylum, when our politicians can’t risk acting humanely for fear of losing their power and status, I find myself turning to El Paso with deep gratitude.
This is what I would like the world to look like. Generous, gentle, kind, and welcoming.
No, El Paso is not perfect, and, yes, it’s a bit messy. But it is not a mess.
Come to think of it, not unlike a stable in Bethlehem where a baby was born so many years ago.
On the Camino, everything was a gift. Once I slowed my step enough to see and pay attention with the eyes of the heart.
It’s true that, in the scheme of things, I walked a short distance. Some may say it doesn’t count. Yet my experience on El Camino de Santiago in Spain clearly revealed insights and gifts of the Holy One that tell me otherwise.
For now, I simply want to saborear los regalos. Savor the gifts.
Right from the get-go, I had to remind myself of my intention to put down my expectations and preferences. Amidst the messiness of 13 people traveling together, many opportunities arose to practice such an intention. True, it was challenging. But, as I kept pausing and paying attention, I began to notice the gifts.
On the first morning, our group left early in a frenzy of chatter and anticipation, only to arrive at our preordained destination before noon. That was my sign that I needed to do this differently. I began to hang back, start out a little later, a little slower, and alone. The contemplative in me needed that space for quiet reflection and the opportunity to be more present.
Not only did I better notice and appreciate the abundance of beauty arising around me, I was becoming more aware of what was arising within me. And it wasn’t always pretty.
Sometimes a feeling of irritability or judgment would show up, and I’d recognize myself in someone else. Rather than go down the path of defensiveness, pride, or shame, I would observe it and remember my mantra: “not my will but yours be done.” To me, that simply means that I accept what is in front of me, what I cannot control, what is not in my hands.
On the Camino I carried Mirabai Starr’s pocket-sized book on St. Teresa of Avila, “Passionate Mystic.” I’d planned my journey to end with a short train ride from Madrid to Avila where I would visit the birthplace and sacred sites of this visionary nun, a religious reformer of the 16th century. Intelligent, independent, sensible, and very human, Teresa offers wise guidance for contemplation and action in daily life. She stresses that self-inquiry and self-knowledge are key on the spiritual path.
Following her guidance over the years, I’ve discovered that the greatest gift is to honestly meet myself on the road and accept all the parts of my precious human existence, knowing that I don’t need to be perfect.
It’s humbling. But so freeing.
Because it reminds me of my need for God. My need to put all my failings, shortcomings, and missteps into the hands of the Source of Love.
As the days passed, I discovered a lightness in my step. I learned to accept all my “missteps,” like the day I took an unnecessary 2 ½ hour uphill climb to the wrong albergue, dragging an unknowing friend along with me. But when we discovered my mistake, my friend not only wasn’t upset with me, we both appreciated the gift we’d been given in getting to know each other through our intimate conversation along the way. A conversation we would never have had if the walk had been short.
Daily, I noticed such gifts as I practiced putting down my preferences and picking up my mantra. These are just a taste:
The young Italian couple that invited me to join them for dinner one evening and the wonderful conversation that ensued.
A vivid dream and reminder from David that I’m not alone.
The fantastic caldo (homemade soup) I stumbled upon when I stopped for lunch after mistakenly walking beyond my stopping point. And the pilgrim who donated her copy of a guide to the Camino when I told her I’d like to return. I never asked her for it; she simply offered it.
Getting to know my companion Bonnie as we accompanied one another on our way to the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela.
Making it to the cathedral in time for the pilgrim’s mass and witnessing the moving surprise ritual of the Botafumeiro swinging with incense up the aisle where we were standing.
In Avila, I’d spent all my euros and a shopkeeper couldn’t accept my credit card to purchase a couple of items dedicated to St. Teresa. I left disappointed, but once on the street, a young woman came running after me with two special cards of St. Teresa’s famous prayer, a gift from the shopkeeper.
At the last minute, I had discovered and procured a room at an albergue located on the site of Teresa’s birthplace. The roses in the garden produced an exceptional aroma, a sweetness I’d never experienced and could imagine came directly from heaven.
Being given a copy of “The Beatitudes of the Pilgrim,” which rang true as I reflected on them. These three are my favorite:
Blessed are you, pilgrim, when you lack words to express your gratitude for all that surprises you at every turn of the road.
Blessed are you, pilgrim, if on the way you meet yourself and give yourself time without haste so as not to neglect your heart.
Blessed are you, pilgrim, if you discover that the road has much to do with silence, and silence with prayer, and prayer with the encounter with the God of Love who awaits you.
My gifts from the Avila shopkeeper
Yes, the Beloved did await me. Ever present. Never changing. Simply waiting for me to pay attention.
“Keep walking, keep singing, keep praying, keep trusting, keep on letting go into Love.”
I’ve caved. I have agreed to walk a small portion of el Camino de Santiago – the Portuguese route – with some of my local hiking friends this month.
Many people who walk el Camino de Santiago, a 500-mi pilgrimage from France through Portugal to Spain, write about their experience after the journey. They share how they were transformed, what struck them as they slowed down and turned inward, and how the unexpected proved to be their greatest teacher.
I’m a little unusual. I’m writing about the Camino before I begin. Because, for me, the spiritual practice of walking the Camino has already begun.
Even though it’s not been on my bucket list, I always thought that if I did do this pilgrimage, it would be a spiritual practice with the intention of letting the journey unfold before me, each day unplanned. And I’d want to walk the entire 500 miles.
But this will not be quite like that.
And I suspected that from the beginning, which is why I just listened as these friends planned the trip. A much shortened version, planned through a tour company that organizes your accommodations every night. And delivers your backpack to these places for you!
But being the adventurer that I am, and in hearing my friend ask me once again if I would consider going, I finally said yes. Then the internal questions began.
As I listened to pre-Camino conversations and concerns among these friends, I knew for certain that their focus was very different. But we live, after all, in a privileged culture. And I was quietly advocating for something countercultural.
So, I wondered, did I make the right decision? Would I be able to stay grounded within my being and carry my intentions? Would I feel like an impostor as I encountered other pilgrims who were walking much farther and under very different circumstances?
I think of my El Paso friend, Heidi, a lay missioner with a lifelong commitment to social justice and accompanying the poor and marginalized. She’s walking the Camino as I write this. Her plan is to complete the entire 500 miles. She and her companions don’t have reservations along the way, they are carrying everything they need on their backs, and they’re enduring some intense weather. Consequently, they are traveling simply and lightly. With the intention to accept whatever comes. And recognize it as gift.
At first I felt my accomplishment would be so little in comparison. Yet, isn’t this also what is asked of me as I walk with this group of friends on the Camino? To put aside my expectations and anticipations, my judgments and preferences? And love each person I accompany, and encounter, where they are? Just as I am asked to love the migrants whom I’ve accompanied on their own camino?
Neither is easy.
Pots hand painted by migrants to raise money for their journey
Whether it’s the privileged or the underprivileged we walk with, the ordinary or the extraordinary we encounter, loving what is, is a hard practice. There’s no doubt about it.
I remember when I first picked up St. Therese of Lisieux’s Story of a Soul more than 30 years ago. How simple and childlike she seemed to me. Yet I have long since learned that her “little way” is anything but simple. She put her preferences and her will aside daily. In the confines of a convent, where she lived with some challenging personalities. And offered up every little detail of her “ordinary” life, as it unfolded, for love. She accepted what was in front of her as divine will.
For the practice of the presence of God IS accepting the present moment, just as it is. And loving who and what is in front of you. That, I’ve discovered, is my spiritual practice.
To walk even the smallest part of the Camino with that intention will not be easy. So, the Camino will have much to teach me.
And the lesson is beginning before I even walk out the door.
Sharing a happy ending here – so far – to my last post, and I apologize for taking so long to write it.
Early in June, Sofia, the asylum seeker I had attempted to sponsor, was released from detention! Yay! Thanks to the work of Las Americas – an immigrant advocacy nonprofit in El Paso that provides pro bono and low-cost legal services to asylum seekers. I serve on the board of directors of Las Americas, which is how I initially learned about Sofia’s situation.
I hadn’t mentioned it in my last post, more for her protection than anything, but Sofia was being held at Otero County Processing Center. A privately run facility known for its hellish conditions, Otero is located off a New Mexico desert highway about 40 miles northeast of El Paso. Approaching this windowless, concrete building surrounded by high fencing with barbed wire, you’d have to wonder if you’re at a “processing center” or the county prison next door.
No doubt about it. Otero is basically immigration jail.
So it makes sense that, after her nonsensical third denial for parole, Sofia was so distraught, she asked to be deported, willing to risk the death threats she’d received back home in Colombia rather than remain imprisoned and subjected to the hostility of her detention officer. Take that in for a moment. After all she’d been through, facing the threats back home felt no worse than what she was facing in detention.
Photo credit: The Otero County Processing Center on Jan. 4. (Corrie Boudreaux/El Paso Matters)
Fortunately, the immigration judge did not act immediately on her request, and since Sofia is a client of Las Americas’, the nonprofit filed a complaint against this officer on her behalf, which prompted ICE to release her on bond, for a lesser amount than what’s usually requested.
Knowing that applying for bond from a local nonprofit would take several days, I offered to front the money and take her home with me. I’d get reimbursed later. The critical issue was to get Sofia out of there.
But releasing asylum seekers from detention is never quick nor simple.
It took about a day and a half of dealing with crass, curt, and intimidating ICE employees before everything was approved and Sofia was released to me. This included an unnecessary return trip to Otero the second morning to replace my check that ICE had mishandled.
It didn’t matter how inconvenient or unreasonable their request was. I had to comply. To not return would jeopardize Sofia’s freedom. They had all the power. They were in control of the life I wanted to free.
This experience gave me just a tiny taste of what immigration attorneys and paralegals handling asylum cases deal with every day. The terse and offensive responses from those in authority, the steady push upstream against a forceful tide of anti-refugee, anti-asylum decision makers. This is the system social justice and human rights advocates are working against. But no matter the frustration nor the seemingly impossible odds, they do it in exchange for something invaluable – the dignified life of another human being.
Welcoming Sofia into my home was a complete gift. Proof that a special bond can exist, even between two strangers.
During the three days she spent with me before moving on to stay with a relative while awaiting her court hearing, Sofia viewed everything with a child’s exuberance. From the moon and stars in the night sky, which she hadn’t seen for months, to a cheap new pair of shoes that I bought to replace the thin, blister-causing pair that she’d been given in detention. She praised the simple meal I prepared for her first evening and insisted on preparing a Colombian-style dinner for me the next, along with cleaning my floor and acting as my secretaria, wanting to do whatever she could to assist me. I met practically her entire family via FaceTime — husband, daughter, parents, mother-in-law, cousins. Their immense gratitude felt humbling.
Sofia is one of the lucky ones.
More than 80 percent of asylum seekers do not have legal representation and must simply languish in detention until their asylum case is decided. Most likely they’ll be deported. No matter how solid their credible fear case. It’s rare to win asylum without an attorney, especially if your case is decided in a state like Texas. Most asylum seekers are totally ill-prepared to legally represent themselves and they face intimidation from the ICE agent, from the judge, and from the government attorney questioning them as they attempt to defend their case while clad in detention-assigned prison garb.
I think of all the people who flee their country with legitimate fear of violence and death threats, only to be met at our ports of entry with such incredible resistance and dehumanization. Nowadays asylum seekers must be lucky enough to land an appointment through the CBP One app if they want to even be considered. It doesn’t matter what dangers you’re fleeing or what you’re facing while waiting in Mexico.
That’s why being able to help release even one person, one “alien,” from immigration detention was a grace beyond description. And nonprofits like Las Americas are a true blessing.
So I’ll give Las Americas a plug here and say that the org doesn’t have nearly the funding it needs and is unable to take on more clients. No matter how desperate the person. If you’d like to support people like Sofia and the work of Las Americas, please donate at https://www.las-americas.org/donate
And remember:
“Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.” (Hebrews 13)
I was driving down Route 33 in Greene County, in the middle of my visit to Virginia, when I spotted a call coming in on my mobile from the U.S. Department of Homeland Security. I pulled over to talk to the agent.
His call wasn’t unexpected. In fact, I’d been waiting several days for him to question me about why I wanted to sponsor Sofia (not her real name), an asylum seeker from Colombia. Sofia is a 33-year-old wife and mother who could easily be my daughter. I’ve never met her, but we’ve had a giddy conversation on the phone, in which she promised to cook and clean for me if she was released from detention, so happy was she that I was willing to sponsor her.
I was beside myself with embarrassment.
Her situation had only brought home more keenly the luxurious freedoms I enjoy as a U.S. citizen and the immense unearned privilege I have over Sofia simply by being born in a different country. There was no way I felt she owed me anything.
On the contrary, I wanted to apologize to her, for the treatment she’d received in our hands.
Back in her country, Sofia had been politically active and outspoken against the reigning political party. That made her a target. She was violently attacked, sexually violated, lost her business, and finally was threatened to the point that she knew she had to leave or risk losing her life.
It had to come to that. Otherwise, she would never have left behind her husband and daughter – the two most important people in her life.
That’s a feeling I could relate to. My husband and son were my reason for living. I know what it’s like to be a wife and mother whose life is suddenly upended and uncertain beyond her control.
And yet, there’s no way I could compare my life to Sofia’s.
She had no safe alternative. No reasonable choices. Sofia fled to the U.S., to legally ask for asylum, believing that a country that values democracy, freedom, and human rights would harbor her. Like many before her, she did not expect to be put into a detention center, a locked facility surrounded by barbed wire, upon presenting herself at the border and requesting asylum.
Sadly, this is a story I’ve told over and over again.
But it’s getting worse.
For-profit immigration detention centers like the one currently holding Sofia are on the rise. Yet, we know little about how poorly people are treated behind the walls of these privatized prisons. There is no accountability and no public purview.
So when I discovered the opportunity to sponsor Sofia and get her out of the hellhole I know she’s in, I quickly jumped on it. I provided all the necessary financial and supporting info, along with a letter explaining why I felt connected to Sofia and wanted to sponsor her. Despite there being nothing questionable about my character or desire and ability to support her, in the end Sofia’s deportation officer denied her request.
What’s worse is I’ve since discovered just how cruel this officer is. And not only to Sofia, but to other women in her cell as well.
But why keep a woman with a legitimate asylum claim in prison when she’s asked for parole and has someone like me who’s agreed to give her shelter, be responsible for her, and is willing to support her while she awaits her case?
Because you can. Because you don’t have to answer to anyone for your behavior.
Profiteering off of suffering people is bad enough, but denying such a person basic rights is unconscionable. Even long-standing criminals in our prison system are eligible for parole with good behavior.
But there is no reasonable rule for good behavior in our immigration detention system. And Sofia, who is not a criminal, is being treated worse than one, with no rights and no voice. I worry about how she’ll persevere in her current situation. And what other suffering might be inflicted upon her.
Yet Sofia is only one of thousands of asylum seekers in our nation’s detention centers run by private companies who profit from the suffering of others. And are supported by our tax dollars.
It’s not coincidental that I was visiting my former home and small-town community when all this was unfolding. The 30 years spent in Virginia embody the best years of my life. My family circle expanded when we moved to Greene County. These are folks I truly care about, and they, me. The sweetness of that community still tugs on my heart.
But it was clear to me as I reconnected with friends, rejuvenated my spirit with the lush springtime of the Shenandoah Valley, filled my senses and delighted in memories, that what constitutes my circle of connection has expanded too far for me to return. No matter the love and beauty that surrounded me while there, I couldn’t let go of a young woman struggling in a detention center at the southern border.
NOTE: photo credits to Dr. Michael A. Milton (Blue Ridge Mountains), Jupi Lu (mother and child), and Barbara Rosner (detention facilities)
Fourteen years today since David passed. Sometimes I wonder, will I ever find such profound love again?
Is it possible for someone to love me as much as David did? But even if I never find such another love, I know that I’ve been given a gift that many never receive. A taste of my belovedness. Through the eyes and heart of another. That’s what David’s love has given me.
And still does.
Yet it’s just a taste. For I have had moments in which I’ve so powerfully experienced my belovedness that I could barely take it in. Moments that I can only describe as mystical. Because they came out of nowhere and filled me with a “knowing.”
A knowing that, without a doubt, I am loved beyond measure by an immeasurable Presence.
Yet that knowing slips away so easily. In the day-to-day living, I keep forgetting. Or questioning. Even doubting. Like Thomas in this past Sunday’s gospel reading.
“If only you have eyes to see, you will see me everywhere.”
I do want to “see.” But sometimes I need more. Sometimes I need to touch and love the wounds – in myself and others – before I can remember who I am and whose I am. Before I can remember that I am the beloved.
And that nothing is missing anywhere.
Several years ago when I was going through a low point in my aloneness in my log home in Virginia, I reached out for spiritual help. Out of nowhere, I received these words as a reminder.
“Do you not know that your entire being is encompassed by my love?”
Since then it has become like a mantra. Words that I repeat when I need them most.
They remind me that not only I, but everyone and everything, is encompassed by this love.
Recently I took a few days silent retreat simply because I wanted to listen more deeply. I wanted to put aside what I thought I knew, and discover something more, and different, about this Mystery we call God. But I couldn’t get away from this all-encompassing, self-emptying love that made itself known to me and within me in various ways. A love that assured me – again – that nothing is missing.
At times I still feel the sadness of losing David so soon. But I don’t get lost in nostalgia, regrets, or self-pity. Rather, I feel my longing more keenly. A longing to be ever more present to this ever-abiding, interabiding love that gives itself to me every day. And longs to be known and trusted.
Venezuela is bleeding. A deep, dark flow from her insides pouring out over the land and into neighboring countries.
Daily she bleeds. A kind of hemorrhaging of her people that no one seems able to stop. Many complain about it. Many others mourn the loss.
Sources say that, on average, 5,000 people per day are leaving Venezuela. The country has been drained of an estimated 20% of her population. Maybe more.
For years, her people have tumbled into Colombia, Chile, Bolivia, Ecuador, Peru. And now the flow is streaming farther north, to the United States.
But much of the way is clogged. And so they wait, in Ciudad Juárez, a place that’s become a stopgap. But Juarez has its own share of poor who wander the lanes of traffic that inches its way to the international bridge trying to sell their wares, candies and trinkets in hand, dirty rags to wash windshields. The Venezuelans join the locals, competing for meager coins to buy meager meals.
I pass them by when I walk over the bridge into Juarez to help serve the free meals for migrants at the cathedral. I spot the Venezuelans easily. Parents hoisting their children upon their shoulders to appeal to drivers. They speak without using words.
“See, I have a family to feed.”
“Won’t you help this child I’m carrying?”
“See, we’ve come a very long way. We are hungry.” Some carry images of the Venezuelan flag.
But they have endured much more than hunger to get here.
They’ve traveled through “the world’s deadliest jungle,” Panama’s Darien Gap. Some have stepped past dead bodies, heard the cries of others, saw images they’ll never forget along the way. Only to be halted and targeted by cartels and even police. Shaken down for the pittance they’ve earned. Or worse.
They await their fate living on the streets or in shabby shelters, migrant holding cells or hotels. The latter if they’re blessed enough to have meager funds or receive some of the limited support available for temporary shelter.
But even sturdy, hopeful people have their limits. Tensions rise. Frustration grows.
Monday night a fire broke out at one of the Mexican government-run centers for male migrants in Juarez. The cause is under investigation. Most difficult to understand, the guards did not unlock the cells for the men to flee. They left them behind. Three government migration officials and two private security guards have since been arrested.
Dozens died.
More blood flows.
Volunteers at the cathedral created a cross of 39 candles to honor those who died in the fire
The wound grows deeper.
And it becomes easier to grow numb. To desensitize, not want to feel or acknowledge the pain of others. It’s overwhelming, after all.
There’s so much bleeding.
Mexico is saturated with her own blood. Years of femicides, disappearances, slaying of journalists. The list goes on.
My country, too, has spilled much blood since its inception. The blood of innocents seeped below the earth where we try to dismiss it. Or gaslight it.
Just stop the flow north, we say. Then things will be better. I hear the angry voices. I see the twisted news stories. Slanted to instigate fearful and knee-jerk reactions.
Those of us who want to help say it’s too much. What can we do?
In her diaries, Dorothy Day laments how even good-hearted people regard the poor and down-and-out with bitterness and frustration. They ask what’s the use? What can I accomplish anyway?
I know I don’t have answers. I lack control over any of it.
But I try to live by what Dorothy advises, knowing that I often fail.
“If we start in by admitting that what we can do is very small—a drop in the bucket—and try to do that very well, it is a beginning and really a great deal.” (From The Duty of Delight: The Diaries of Dorothy Day)
So, I pick up my bucket and begin once again. Mopping up the drops before me. Trusting that my small effort is making a difference. Even if I can’t make the bleeding stop.
There is no limit to the people coming. I’m told more arrive every day.
But I’m not at one of the shelters accompanying migrants in El Paso. I’ve crossed the border into Juarez to help at Nuestra Seῇora de Guadalupe Cathedral on the plaza where, under the auspices of the Missionaries of St. Columban, volunteers serve almuerzo (lunch) to some 400-600 migrants Monday through Friday. I’d heard they could use help, so I walk over the bridge on Thursdays. A sinfully simple undertaking for me, a white U.S. citizen with a passport.
Meanwhile, all U.S. ports of entry remain closed to asylum seekers as Title 42 continues to serve as a stopgap, causing a growing, seemingly endless number of migrants to make their way across Mexico and land in Juarez. When the number stuck on the streets began escalating, the Columbans and the diocese of Ciudad Juárez chose to set up tables in the parish hall and make sure they ate at least one meal a day.
Cathedral in Ciudad Juarez plaza
People line up outside before the doors open. Men, women, children waiting for a free meal. No questions asked. All that’s required is that you stand for the benediction, eat quickly, and pick up after yourself so that we can seat the next round of folks. Fourteen tables, eight to a table. That’s 112 people per round. And tables will be filled several times before the day is over.
I hadn’t thought about how impractical love is until I started serving plate after plate of warmed-over spaghetti, beans, and rolls to table after table of migrants.
Here, unlike the shelters in El Paso, there’s no quantifiable outcome to my efforts. No one to call to come drive the families to the airport or bus so we can know they’ll soon be in the safe harbor of their sponsor. Instead, they eat and pool back onto the streets or their room, for those who have money to afford one.
When the spaghetti runs out – and it inevitably does – volunteers quickly improvise by opening can after can of tuna, corn, and peas, throwing in huge dollops of mayonnaise, to create a semi-satisfying alternative. That, too, may run out, depending on how many stragglers will show up before the cathedral closes its doors later this afternoon.
How do you even know if someone won’t show up in line again later? I ask one of the volunteers.
She shrugs. Her quizzical expression says, why does it matter?
I only do this one day a week, yet I notice I have attitude issues. I want assurances. Sensible rules. Measurable results.
Volunteers serving lunch
When I volunteered in El Paso, we had order, a structure to the scenario of people arriving seeking asylum. We served a steady stream of migrants, but a manageable one. And many had legitimate claims for asylum. But not all. Still, there was a process. ICE would check each asylee, vet and bring them to our shelters. And we had a good system going, feed them, give them a hot shower and a change of clothes, tell their relatives to buy airline or bus tickets, and get them on to the next leg of their journey. It was a relatively smooth process. And I felt as though I was part of a humanitarian effort with a clear purpose.
Until the arrivals started to grow. And grow. Migration no longer a methodical ebb and flow, but a stubborn tide that refused to go out.
Now I wonder, and worry, where will it all end?
I grow tired rushing from table to table, balancing paper plates, Styrofoam cups with sugar-watery oatmeal. I react, interiorly, to diners who don’t acknowledge the plate of food I’ve set before them with a thank-you. I feel disgusted with the person who sneaks a second meal when so many still needing to be fed sit on folding chairs waiting outside our doors. And I’m beyond frustrated with systems of governing that create the kind of greed, exploitation, and desperation that causes so many to leave home and prevents them from simply existing. Some days I rant with better alternatives. As if I could rule the world. Or would be good at it.
Staring out at this sea of people, I’m secretly deciphering who deserves to be here. Certainly the woman who has stuffed her mop of unkempt hair into a faded black hoodie, stained with the dust of the desert. Her soiled jeans reveal bare ankles fit into sole-flapping sneakers. But not the Venezuelan couple at the next table, charging their phones while ignoring everyone around them. From his bright, obviously-dyed blond cropped hairstyle and her long curls cascading down the length of her clean black coat, I’ve deduced they’ve shuffled in from a hotel room.
I’m clearly no Mother Teresa. Nor Dorothy Day. Apparently, I can accompany people only so far.
Dorothy Day and Mother Teresa (Photo by Jim Forest/Flickr)
Aware that I need an attitude check, I turn to my fellow volunteers for encouragement. Of course, there are stalwart, selfless Catholic sisters among us. Models I don’t even want to try to emulate. But there are also many sweet, youthful faces. I haven’t yet discovered what has brought these 20-something-year-olds to volunteer at least four hours of their weekdays to serve destitute people. But I’ve come to know a few of them. Like Jaime Jesus, the Venezuelan migrant, who arrives every day to tend to other migrants like himself.
At 23, he’s shouldering the responsibility of caring for his ill parents and younger sister back in Venezuela. The day his mother could only feed him and his sister and tried to pretend she and his dad had already eaten, he knew he had to leave home to support them.
On a break between wiping tables and waiting for the next procession to pile in, I ask Jaime about his job. I’d heard he was working as a barista at a local café. He says he starts at 3 p.m., which is basically right after he leaves here, and works until 11. Every day. Then he goes to sleep for a few hours until the alarm wakes him so he can check the CBP One mobile app. Like thousands of other Venezuelan migrants, he’s seeking a “humanitarian exception” to Title 42 to enter the U.S. But whenever he tries to file for an appointment online, the saturated system crashes. So, he keeps rising early and trying.
He makes me wish I had control over that process. I’d quickly decide who was worthy of a chance to apply for a “humanitarian exemption.” Jaime – worthy. Couple with the stylish haircuts – not worthy.
Incredulously, I ask, with such a busy schedule, why then does he volunteer here every day?
“It fills my soul to help my friends,” he says.
I stare for a moment, knowing that if I were him, I’d probably be napping right now, catching up on all those missed hours of sleep instead of feeding fellow competitors in the endless line to enter the land of opportunity.
While Jaime is learning English from us, I’m learning humility from him.
Unbidden, the words of Jim Finley, one of my spiritual teachers, come to mind. “Love won’t let us live on our own terms.”
That’s for sure. Because, if it did, I would naturally put limits on love, conditions that must be met before I can open my heart fully. No such conditions exist with Jaime.
Nor with God. Which is why, at the end of a full day, I choose to sit like an unlearned child in the silence of the lap of God. I need to mellow out and soak up that love. Again.
I settle onto my meditation mat and open the New Testament, expecting to practice lectio divina. The marked, tattered pages of 1Corinthians fall open before me. I’ve highlighted the infamous chapter 13 all over the place. Those overused verses at weddings that caused guests’ eyes to cloud over.
But my eyes fall to this line: “There is no limit to love’s forbearance, to its trust, its hope, its power to endure.”
No limit!
I read it again. I think of the migrants at the cathedral. I see Jaime‘s boyish smile welcoming them.
The message seeps in.
Am I being asked to live up to that? That kind of limitless love? Can I possibly get myself out of the way and let such an impractical, extravagant love order my life?
Certainly not on my own.
I close my eyes and open my hands. Waiting in the silence.
When the gong on my meditation timer app goes off, Nicholas of Flue’s ethereal ending prayer pops up. “My Lord and my God, detach me from myself to give my all to you.”
My God, my all? Yes, I know, it’s the only way.
Note: a version of this essay will appearin NCR’s Soul Seeing column thisspring.
A Journey of the Heart 