A Pre-Camino Practice

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.

A Tempestuous Time

It’s a time unlike any I’ve lived through until now.

We awakened this morning to so much emotion and anxiety circulating in our country as we wait for millions of votes to be counted. We live on the edge of the strong possibility of violence erupting on either or both sides. We continue to be infected and die from a virus that cares nothing about our political beliefs nor our apathy and annoyance with its presence.

Most of us feel uncertain and powerless.

Despite the outcome of this election, we’ve landed as a nation in the middle of a whirling mass of blame, hate-filled rhetoric, distrust of others, conspiracy theories, and blockades to civil discourse.

Our inability to get beyond labels associated with political affiliation, religious beliefs, ethnicity, sexuality, and even one’s home state has distanced us from truly seeing and listening to one another.

Yes, we’re smack in the middle of a painful, turbulent time. And it’s easy to get lost in the eye of such a tempest and lose sight of the shore.

Yet hope lies in our midst. A hope that is not tied to external circumstances or desired outcomes. A hope that will exist no matter who gains access to the White House.

Yesterday, after I returned from volunteering at the absentee ballot warehouse, knowing it was going to be a rough night ahead, I turned to my spiritual practices. I tuned into Zoom prayer and meditation vigils in which people from all over the country, equally as concerned, sat in silence together for the good of all. I participated in body prayer and grounded movements to reconnect with my Source. To reground to the God of love who provides and guides and never abandons despite appearances.

Yet, later in the evening, I felt the anxiety creep in as I watched the election results. Rather than go into an emotional reaction, I used the “welcoming prayer,” a body prayer in which I identify and feel the sensations in my body before letting them go.

The practice involves focusing inwardly, accepting and welcoming all that arises, no matter how uncomfortable it feels, until the energy lessens. Then, symbolically opening my hands, I release whatever the emotion is, using a mantra to let go of my desire to control or change what is before me.

And yet something does change within me. Something more spacious, more flowing, arises. Something akin to freedom.

Acceptance, it turns out, is freedom. It’s not defeatist. It’s not about giving up. On the contrary, it’s about freely giving until there’s nothing left to be attached to.

And then you open to the grace – the hope – that was always there.

As I practiced last night, that shakiness I felt in my body as I welcomed the anxiety brought on a small taste of the fear Jesus must have felt the night he spent in the Garden of Gethsemane as he grew more intensely aware of the painful, humiliating, evil thing that was about to happen. I found myself wondering, who wouldn’t run from the scenario he was about to face? Yet he was still willing to accept what lie before him. To say, “Your will be done.” To empty himself and give it all.

I understand that to not cling to your own life nor to a desired outcome takes immense spiritual maturity. To willingly enter into a painful scenario out of love for others, even strangers, seems unreal. And yet it is real.

And we know how to do this. We know people, just like us, who have offered this kind of extravagant love, a self-sacrificing love that makes no sense to someone who doesn’t understand, to someone who wonders what you personally got out of it.

Yet this is the kind of love that will save us from sinking in this current storm. As someone reminded me recently, we are not here to fix the world, but to love it.

Although I can’t conceive what will emerge on the other side of this, I do know I want to be part of this love’s unfolding. I’m willing to do the hard inner work to feel my own pain, my sorrow and grief when I know others are suffering, so that I can love more graciously and generously, neither clinging to nor identifying with the outcome. I want to offer the best of who I am, with my heart open, for the remainder of my time on this planet.

I offer a plea for the best of us to emerge out of this storm. That each of us be accountable for our thoughts and actions, for how we show up in this moment, with each other. That we let go of our own clinging and identifying, keep our hearts open, stay grounded in our Source, and offer the best of who we are for the journey ahead.

In this tempestuous time, we are going to need all hands on deck.

Solid on Sandstone

Scratches and scabs stretch across my arms and legs like badges. Remnants of the arid brush we tramped through on long day hikes across The Needles. Several days of backpacking and hiking through Canyonlands National Park took a bit of a toll. I spread topical muscle ease balm around kneecaps in large, circular motions. My hiking socks wring out brown, sending sand and dirt down the drain. The rocky terrain gouged a slight hole in my pack’s side pouch. And a dusty tent waits in the garage for a thorough cleaning.

At first glance, this may not sound like a pleasant excursion. But it was.

 And so much more.

I realize that sleeping in the Needles doesn’t even sound inviting. Yet something about white and red sandstone spires, 360-degree vistas, and absolute silence in nature nourishes and satiates me.

You could wonder what’s soothing about sleeping in a narrow, one-person tent with an open-air view to the stars and a full moon peering into my sleep awakening me throughout the night? Yet, as slivers of moonlight beamed on my face I would awaken, not with annoyance, but with excitement and anticipation. A thirst for the mysterious and mystical.

You could argue, don’t you have silence at home? After all, you live alone. Why would you leave the comforts of a real mattress and real food (as opposed to freeze-dried dinners) to lug liters of water and minimal supplies to a campsite miles from the nearest toilet?

All this is true, and reasonable to ask.

Full moon over our campsite

But, disconnected from all cellular and electronic communication, preciously present to the natural world, I connect more deeply. Listen more intently. Receive once again the lesson of the insignificance of “little me” in the scheme of things. And yet, paradoxically, my place in the scheme of things is solidified.

Not that I gained a new and meaningful purpose for my existence.

On the contrary, an ancient, timeless purpose revealed itself. The gift of simply being. To be breathed into beauty by a loving Creator is significance enough.

Everything in the desert canyons cries out with that message.

I began to hear it as I contemplated the ancient majesty and beauty around me.

Created by millions of years of erosion of rock, the Needles rises up in towers towards the heavens like skyscrapers and steeples crowded into an imaginary city. A “city” that existed eons before any of us were born and will continue to exist whether or not any of us are here to appreciate it. And throughout it all, the ever-changing light of sunrises and sunsets, moonrises and star-filled nights reflecting on sandstone spiers creates beauty, indescribable and immeasurable. Simply by standing still and allowing.

With that awareness, in the intense silence, and with few people around us, it seemed as though nothing else existed outside this fierce, unmovable, breathtaking place. Thankfully, without the constant barrage of news clips and hashtags, I was oblivious to the crazed chatter around COVID and the presidential entourage testing positive, the presidential debate and protests – all that was unfolding in the less than one week I was away. And I’m grateful. Because that all seems so insignificant in the scheme of things as well.

Nature teaches me fortitude and focus, the solidity and sacredness of being present. To beauty. To breath. To allowing.

Somewhere during an early-in-the-week, day-long hike of crossing mesas, stepping up and down huge stones, bending and straightening to the solid surfaces beneath my feet, my right knee bristled against the exertion. An old injury acting up. With miles to go before reaching camp, I had little choice but to keep on. Carrie Newcomer’s song “You Can Do This Hard Thing” entered my mind. I adopted it like a chant, singing the words along with symbolically opening my hands in surrender to the path in front of me. A prayer of acceptance. A chant of encouragement. An act of allowing.

That night, after resting at camp, I risked climbing one more gigantic rock, to sit atop its flat surface and wait for the full moon to rise. Slowly, a golden orb edged over a rock formation, spotlighting the sky, shining over the sandstone, silently singing of our solidarity.

sunset over canyons

The Birthday Gift

I love my son more than anything, as most of you know. So, to say that I love my young friend in detention like a son is no small thing. It’s not that I love him as inexpressibly as I love Davis, yet I care about this young man as I would a son.

I know this is true because I find myself praying for Mathias in the middle of my day. I feel how much I genuinely want his well-being and freedom. Probably almost as much as he does.

Even after a very tiring Wednesday at the Nazareth hospitality center, I don’t try to talk myself out of visiting him later that night. In fact, I’ve spent nearly every Wednesday evening since the beginning of this year at the El Paso Processing Center visiting him.

And I haven’t once resented it. It’s never felt like an obligation. Something I had to do.

On the contrary, our visits have been a gift to me. For what he teaches me about acceptance, trust in God, expectations in life. We’ve created quite a bond.

That’s why when I visited him last week for his 26th birthday – his second one in this prison-like system – it wasn’t easy. Not for him. Not for me.

Both of us had expected he would have been released or deported by now. Instead, another three-month extension has passed with no answers. No explanations.

That night was tough, not being able to bring him anything to celebrate. No gift. No cake. Not even a card to slip through the slot under the glass that separates us. I forced myself to stay cheerful as I wished him a happy birthday. Trying to keep things light, I drew imaginary balloons on the glass. Blue and yellow and green and red ones, I told him, as if he were a little boy.

Hoping to make him smile with my silliness. He did.

I thought there was little else I could offer.

I was wrong.

Mathias is not easily discouraged, nor is he willing to be a victim in life. That evening, this smart young man told me more about the research he’d been doing. How he had contacted the ACLU and the American Bar Association, and discovered his rights and the 180-day limit of being held in detention once you’re processed for deportation. He also learned about something called habeas corpus.

That’s where I stepped in. I knew nothing about the law, but I wanted to find out.

“Let me contact my connections at Las Americas,” I told him. “Let me find out more about your rights and how I can help you pursue this.”

I know staff at Las Americas, the El Paso immigrant advocacy nonprofit, are overloaded with pro bono cases these days. But, to my surprise, they quickly responded that they thought they could help Mathias. And they, too, wanted to get him out of this prolonged and unjustifiable detention.

I was almost giddy last night when I planned to give him the good news. But just before I’d arrived, Mathias had already been visited by an attorney from Las Americas who explained they wanted to take his case. He was jubilant as he told me. He could not thank me enough. Said he would never forget me no matter where he goes in life.

His joy filled me. And in that moment, I knew how God had used me in these simple, weekly encounters in which I’ve felt so powerless.

As I left him that evening, I realized I had indeed given Mathias a birthday gift. It was just a week late.

True Freedom

“There’s nothing I can do,” he tells me.

He’s told me this countless times before.

Always with the same calm, trusting composure. And I have come to accept the acceptance in his words, knowing that his deep faith guides him.

But tonight…tonight I feel the anger growing inside me.

Tonight I want to slam my fists on the table, pound the glass between us, yell at the guards or his deportation officer, or better yet, the anonymous person who wrote this dreadful form letter Mathias has just slipped under the thick glass that divides us.

The letter that states our government continues to work with his government to take him back, even though we both know that since he has no passport or other legal documents, it’s highly unlikely his country will ever accept him. They’ve already said they can’t take him.

The letter that states he must not interfere with the process (a statement that would be laughable if it weren’t so ridiculous).

And, finally, the worst part, the letter that states he must remain locked up until October. Three more months of not knowing. With no guarantee any decision will be made even after that time.

Mathias, the young man I visit in detention, lost his asylum case back in April. Not unusual in El Paso. Denial is happening at an even higher frequency here than elsewhere.

We know he is supposed to be deported. But he waits in this liminal space as the two countries go back and forth, indifferent to the life they are impacting.

Three more months in limbo. Or is it hell?

I know the food isn’t good. I know that whenever he is allowed outdoors – always accompanied by a guard – he must stay within the narrow areas outlined in white on the cement. He cannot venture outside these lines.

I know about the locked metal doors that seal behind you, the tall barbed-wire fences and the full barracks where the TV plays loudly throughout the day. The difficulty he has in trying to pray.

And yet, I tell him I wish I could trade places with him. Even as I say it, I know I am sincere.

He is already so thin, he cannot afford to lose any more weight. I would gladly lose it for him. I would take on the monotony of his structured day, assigned to wear a navy jump suit, allowing others to make decisions for me. In such a situation, so completely out of my control, I would be forced to turn to God while perched on this ledge in liminal space, feeling like a confined criminal when I am anything but.

This is Mathias’s situation. And he no more deserves it than I do.

This young man who followed the law, coming to a U.S. port of entry to present his case for asylum. As international law allows.

The thing is, I care about Mathias. I have come to know him as a man of integrity. I have watched him deal with the stress and uncertainty of his situation with courage and tremendous trust in God.

When he tells me, “There is nothing I can do,” I hear and see in his face his ability to accept “God’s will,” as he puts it. He trusts God to care for him.

 

Yet he tells me he longs for freedom. After all, he has been confined for more than a year already.

I think of this as I drive home and discover Interstate 10 is closed. Traffic crawls as it’s diverted off the highway. I feel so tired and frustrated, knowing this will double the time it normally takes to get back to Las Cruces. I swear aloud.

Then I think of Mathias. Locked in his barracks tonight. Sleeping soundly, ever since he has learned to accept his situation.

Stressed behind my steering wheel, cursing tonight’s road construction, I suddenly wonder, who is more free?

Sometimes I have trouble accepting life on life’s terms. Despite his age, Mathias is my teacher. He reminds me of the importance of returning to my Source. My true freedom. And did I mention he is Muslim?

“He [or she] who attempts to act and do things for others or for the world without deepening his own self-understanding, freedom, integrity and capacity to love will not have anything to give others.”    Thomas Merton

Graces in Greene

 

My cocoon in the woods

No, I’ve not disappeared. I have a good reason for taking a month off from my blog — the sale and closing on my beautiful log cabin in Greene County, Virginia.

With all the details to handle for this long-distance move, my 12 days of Christmas went something like this:

12 hours on the phone working out the details of this major move (most of them spent on  hold with Direct TV). Eight friends helping me pack, bringing me food, transporting stuff to storage and Goodwill. Six days driving 9+ hours a day (from El Paso to Virginia and back again). Four trips to a storage unit with some items Davis will surely not know what the heck to do with. Two weeks packing, sorting, and discarding. One light snowfall blanketing the woods and mountains. And a cardinal in an oak tree.

It’s been bittersweet, to be sure.

Finding  myself back in that special place brought up a lot of memories. It gave me a new appreciation of my friends, of my Greene County community, of the privilege of living in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains, and, most especially, of the spiritual significance of living in the silence and solitude of this log home that I envisioned and manifested.

Although two weeks was barely enough time to get everything done and moved out, I managed to pause each day. Take time for contemplative silence. Note the blessings. And be grateful.

That practice helped me remain focused. It calmed me, gave me clarity, and assisted me in letting go of my last tether to Virginia. Not an easy thing to do. Because I love that home. I love my friends. I love Greene County.

I experienced one last snowstorm in this magical place.

Still, I knew it was the right decision.

And I experienced, much more clearly than I had before, just how much Spirit had upheld me, kept me safe, supported and loved me in this space. Through the questions and doubts, the loneliness, the seeking, as I attempted to listen more and more deeply to where my heart was calling me.

I felt such profound gratitude.

Gratitude for the graces of both the peaceful and tumultuous emotions that surfaced here. For the healing that took place as well. For the Love that never left me.

Gratitude for the community of friends who have showed up whenever I needed them. For those of you who are reading this, I can’t even find sufficient words to thank you.

Greene County is an amazing place. I think of the friends who appeared at my door within minutes after David died. Your countless meals, offers of physical and emotional support, and prayers carried me through that stage and beyond.

Three years later friends again appeared to help me move from our family home to this dream home in the woods. And now, again, you have come to support me.

I know I could not have made this transformational move without you.

Now I’m back in El Paso, settling into an apartment. I haven’t lived in apartment since before I got married at 24 — a very long time ago!

Yes, it’s an adjustment. Another practice in letting go. Daily I am learning to say “yes” to life as it shows up. To accept a life that’s rarely on my terms. And, I hope, paying attention to the graces.

Graces abound.

When I’m in the flow of life, I recognize them. Just as I did these past two weeks in Virginia. They show up in various forms, in unexpected places. They come in different shapes and even in colors. My favorite happens to be Greene.

 

Mountains flank my snowy, winding driveway as I prepare to leave Virginia.

The Voice of the Beloved

 

Since today is my birthday I decided to write about something special to me. The voice that calls me beloved.

It’s what brought me here. It’s what sustains me.

And it’s what speaks to me from the depths of any confusion or concern, fear or uncertainty I may experience. Calling me to be still. And know my belovedness.

I experienced it again over the weekend when I came up against a tough, unavoidable situation, in which, for various reasons, I wound up being alone in the house to deal with a very miserable guest. As this woman began projecting her blame and misery onto me, I felt her negative energy threatening to zap my own. I struggled to stay grounded and centered in the midst of it. I envisioned a circle of light around me for protection. And I avoided her as much as possible. But it was tough.

On Sunday a reflection from Inward/Outward showed up in my email box. As I read Kayla McClurg’s words, I heard the voice of love calling me back to remembering who I am. Towards the end of her reflection, Kayla quotes Raymond Carver’s poem “Late Fragment” — a short poem he wrote on his hospital bed when he was dying.

By the time I got to the last line, I knew what I had lost sight of in the presence of the energy-zapping woman.

Kayla then asks: “Are we, too, learning to call ourselves beloved, to feel ourselves beloved on the earth? Are the fragments making us whole?”

In the midst of her questions, an inner voice asked, Do you know yourself as the beloved? Do you allow yourself to feel it, to take it in, and to live with the truth of this in your soul?

In all honesty I knew that, on most days, I did not. And I suspect that I’m not the only one who has difficulty with this.

But Spirit fully intended for me to get the message this time. Later that evening, when I picked up Henri Nouwen’s book Discernment, hoping to read a little before going to bed, these lines came up within the first paragraph:

“Self-rejection is the greatest enemy of the spiritual life because it contradicts the sacred voice that calls us God’s beloved. Being the beloved expresses the core truth of our existence.”

The core truth.

The crux of our existence is that we are beloved.

The voice of Love tells us this. Again and again and again. Until at last we can accept it and fully take it in.

This being Holy Week in the Christian tradition, I was reminded how, at the end of his life, Jesus was certainly surrounded by negative energy. Daggers of hatred. Projections of fear and misery. Yet always he walked the earth grounded in the love of the One who sent him, able to hear the voice that called him the beloved. Despite what was going on around him.

So, in my meditation, I ask Jesus, “Did you get what you wanted from this life, even so?” Tears forming as I ask the question because I know the suffering and intense humiliation he endured. “I can’t imagine why you would have…”

And then the answer comes: “Yes, because I drew you to myself.”

A response so beautiful. So loving. So beyond what I can fully understand. Unless I know myself as the beloved.

Where’s the Ocean?

Water.

Water filled my day. Not only because of the unusual rain we experienced. Unusual simply because it rained in El Paso. And people don’t know how to act or drive in such a phenomenon. Kind of like Virginians with snow.

But the image of water actually started before I woke up, when these words entered my half-asleep awareness:

“What does it mean to really trust God?”

I left El Paso last year with these exact words. They were on my lips and heart right about this time as I was preparing to return home to Virginia. I’d had some powerful experiences of Love upholding me through those uncertain months, and I’d come to see, and to trust, that I really do have everything I need. That a benign Universe does uphold us. I thought for sure I’d never not trust myself and God again.

But that’s not how my story goes.

So this morning when I awoke with these words on my heart again, I figured Spirit was trying to tell me something. I sat down with my journal in my lap, pen poised, and right off I started writing about myself as if I were a fish. Who knows where this all came from, but here’s what I wrote:

 “I see how I go back and forth, floundering like a fish flapping in and out of the water, sometimes trusting completely and serenely in the ocean that holds me; other times gasping for air so frenetically, I wonder if the ocean ever existed.

“But it’s here. It’s always here. Sometimes its presence is so obvious and constant, I’ve missed it completely by the sheer ordinariness and simplicity of its existence. Probably my small, fearful self expects a grand Tsunami to show up and knock me over with its immense force. Now that would be unmistakable!

“Instead, the ocean is simply present. Quiet and still, nourishing and sustaining me without my knowing it. Can I recognize its presence and drink from the possibilities? Can I let go into its current and trust where it will take me? Or will I fall back to my old way of thinking and resort to struggling to stay above water?

“It’s funny to think about the ocean in the El Paso desert where it’s hard to find any body of water. Or any moisture at all. Why the ocean metaphor in a place that lacks water?”

 

I’m quiet for a while.

And then I remember the poppies I saw this weekend.

Patches of bright orange-yellow blooming across the desert sands. Nourished by water that seems nonexistent. But it’s there. You just have to go deep underground to find it.

Occasionally—like today—water appears on the surface. Unexpectedly falling from the sky in big, wet, unmistakable raindrops that grace my face, my arms, my spirit. Raindrops that can never be separated from the ocean.

And neither can I.

 

The Generosity of Strangers

 A house filled with women in their 70’s. That’s where I’m living now. No, it’s not a retirement village or an assisted-living community. Located on the outskirts of downtown El Paso, this boarding house belongs to the Sisters of St. Joseph of Concordia, who reopened it recently to welcome volunteers coming to the border to work with the influx of immigrants. It just so happens that all the current residents are in their 70’s. Except me, of course.

I’m also the sole lay person at the moment. And the only one who has ventured here on her own, listening to a call within to write about the issues related to immigration, along with the personal stories. Stories of those who’ve made it across the border and those who serve them. There’s a lot to tell.

Heartbreaking stories for sure. But heartwarming stories, too. Stories about the goodness of people. Something I witness every day in El Paso.

Like these retired Sisters who come from all over the country, leaving their communities, and the comfortable and familiar, to spend two weeks or more volunteering at Nazareth Hall, a welcoming center for the refugees and immigrants detained at the border.

The dedication at Nazareth Hall is amazing. The place is run entirely by volunteers. And has been since June when the Loretto Sisters opened it in response to the influx of women and children from Central America.

Once Immigration and Customs Enforcement releases the immigrants from detention, an agent brings them over to Nazareth Hall. Then volunteers help reunite them with their families as they await their court date. Some might have to stay the night; some maybe two nights or more until their relatives can secure their travel arrangements. As they wait, these immigrant families — mostly young mothers and children — are given meals, a shower, and clothing. And they are treated with kindness and compassion. Maybe for the first time on their journey.

Generous El Pasoans volunteer to make and deliver meals, take home bedding and towels to wash, donate clothing and hygiene necessities, cover a night shift, and provide rides every day to the bus station or airport. But they can’t do it all.

That’s why a call went out to women religious nationwide to join this effort.

From 10 a.m. to 5 p.m., these Sisters — some of them well into their late 70’s — are on their feet, other than a short break for lunch. They clean bedrooms and bathrooms, serve meals and clean up, and accompany guests to the showers and to the clothing room where a mom chooses a coat or sweater or second set of clothes from neatly organized piles of donations sorted by size and gender. No one ever takes more than they need. And they are always grateful. For everything.

This week I started volunteering at Nazareth Hall. I want to be with the people. They’ll teach me what it really means to live with uncertainty. To do what needs to be done without complaining. And to trust in the generosity of strangers to show up. Maybe just when you need it most.

Birthing Hope

Days after I arrived in El Paso I found myself back in Mexico. A Sister friend invited me to come experience the feast of Our Lady of Guadalupe in her parish. A spur of the moment invitation. I gladly said yes.

I’ve known about the Latin American Catholics’ deep dedication to Our Lady of Guadalupe but I’d never participated in the feast day celebrations. Filled with lively music, colorful traditional clothing, singing, dancing. I wanted to experience it.

But Sr. Carol Jean’s parish was not in Mexico City, the place where Mary is said to have appeared to a poor, indigenous man named Juan Diego in 1531 and the place where I’d spent two weeks last July for orientation with Incarnate Word Missionaries. Back then I roamed a middle-class neighborhood bustling with restaurants, gas stations, supermercados, and shops peddling local pottery, art, chocolate, and helado. My trip across the border this time was quite different, as I ventured into one of the poorest sections of Juarez where my friend ministers.

Here there are no tree-filled parks. In fact, hardly any trees grow at all in the dry, dusty, gray surroundings. Crumbling structures, small stone adobes, and peddlers line the unpaved streets. A stark contrast. Not only to Mexico City, but to every other place I’ve visited.

Wanting to join in, I helped the neighborhood women decorate the beaten-up white pickup truck that would transport their teenaged Lady of Guadalupe and young Juan Diego — a small boy donning a poncho and straw hat. We covered three-tiered boxes with brown paper bags to simulate a mountain, taping colored paper flowers anywhere we could.

Once the matachines (dancers) arrived in their bright red and white native dress, our caravan rumbled off. The boys banged their drums, the dancers stomped up the dust, and the rest of us processed behind singing. Walking alongside the women, some pushing strollers, some carrying images of Our Lady of Guadalupe, I chanted the lyrics to “La Guadalupana.” Over and over again.

For nearly two hours we strolled the streets of Juarez.

Down the rocky, littered roads and structures scrawled with graffiti, we sang. People ventured out to watch the growing procession. Men from their mechanics shop, grandmothers, mothers, and daughters from homes that seemed incapable of holding them all. One elderly woman stood in her doorway hugging a large painting of Our Lady of Guadalupe, her smile revealing several missing teeth. Everywhere people stopped what they were doing to watch. Participate. Offer a prayer.

Somewhere during the procession I sensed something. Something about being among the people. I realized what it was. Happiness. I felt happy to be here.

But as I took in the richness of the festivities alongside the desperate poverty, I also felt compassion. And I uttered my own silent prayers. Prayers for hope. Most of these people, I knew, would never leave this life of poverty. How could they have hope? It seemed like the best thing to pray for.

Yet my voice seemed insignificant and small.

Days later I came across Richard Rohr’s meditation on a poem by 16th century mystic John of the Cross.

“If you want, the Virgin will come walking down the road pregnant with the holy...”

Seeking shelter in your heart. Seeking your help in giving birth. She needs us because…

“each of us is the midwife of God, each of us.”

I see an image of the women walking down the streets of Juarez. I remember my prayer for hope.

And suddenly I see that hope is birthed through me. I am the midwife of God. What a gift I’ve been given! Yet most days I don’t feel up to it. I’m like a child, tentatively taking the gift offered, as if unbelieving that she can really have it.

Hope wants to be born. But it needs a recipient, a conduit, a midwife. God can only bring hope to the world through each of us.

I wonder, what if we all chose hope?
What if we all said yes to the birth of hope within us?
Again and again and again?
Might the streets of Juarez look a little different?