Monday, May 6, 2024

The Honor and Joy of It All

 Try as I might, I don’t pay attention to directions if I am not driving. Well, Dre would add, that even sometimes when I am driving I sorta forget where I am headed.

So, I am not exactly sure of the turn-off we took after pausing at a memorial cross of Alvero, swinging by to check out a Humane Borders water tank, and making a brief pit stop at the Sasabe border crossing.

Peter, who was celebrating his two hundredth Samaritan water drop, and I were joined by three investigative reporters from El Salvador, Honduras and Guatemala. They had been brought to the States by the University of Arizona to report on Central America: What does it mean to be a journalist today? They only had three days here, so in addition to filling up on Tucson’s Mexican food, “the most delicious food ever!” they requested a trip to the wall.

Oh beautiful, for spacious skies,

For amber waves of steel

Undulating beyond our eyes

last shards of hope do reel.

We had arrived. The stiff, course warriors cemented firmly in place along a bulldozed desert path. Trump budgeted $15,000,000,000 dollars, mostly from the military budget, to build 738 miles of wall, but Biden returned $2.2 billion of it, so then it was only about $12.8 billion, but now Biden has unleashed an impossible goal of repairing the ever-so-many-gaps in the wall, basically every section that crosses an arrollo, a dry desert streambed, or where a thirty dollar saw cuts through a post in twenty minutes. Thus, silent hunks of machinery glare down at us as we pause and gape wide-eyed and clenched hearted at the ripples of thirty-foot rusty beams. The human body is not built to withstand thirty-foot drops. The impact shatters bones and fractures spines. *

We drove slowly up and down the scraped dust. The desert mourns this slash across her being. Our crew ask to stop to photograph at a lonely sweater abandoned by the wall. Border Patrol makes migrants drop almost everything except their phone after they make their request for asylum and enter the vehicle for the detention center. One night last year I watched outside of Lukeville when BP also made a long line of boarding migrants toss their passport into a trash can, basically their most valuable possession, one that verifies their humanity.

Up and down. Up and down. Peter locked into four-wheel drive and the engine had to grind a bit. We passed a cattle ranch, nestled between two hills, cute, perhaps even charming in this prickly passage. “That’s one of the good ones,” he explained. She is pretty supportive of what we are doing and helps out when she can… and, we are there.”

Up one more hill and down and suddenly we were in the midst of a mishmash of dozens of improvised, wind-smashed tents a kitchen crafted with folding tables and stacks of supplies, and a glowing firepit with blanketed bodies huddled around.

It was also a mishmash of humans. Samaritans in their red shirts and name tags, a very tall dude stirring what appeared to be a pot of beans, folks hunched behind huge movie cameras gazing over the gathering, and the asylees themselves from Guiana, Cameroon, Mexico, Egypt and Ecuador. A pretty fancy mobile home looked to be providing wi-fi and I could hear happy voices connecting with long-separated family members, “I’m safe, I’m safe. Yeah, and they served us some food and I am safe.” Another guy had a small group of attentive listeners circled around as he explained never say that you are looking for work during the immigration interview, use the word fear instead, and yeah, you will have to get a lawyer for your asylum case. And yeah, after you are done with detention you will get dropped off at a “church” named Casa Alitas and you will be able to get a shower and they will explain to your family how to buy plane tickets.”

The Central Americans smiled broadly and began to wander, noticing, moving in, stepping back. In their element. There were stories to listen to.

I too, was in my element. After checking in with the tall guy, I started gathering, shaking, folding, storing blankets. At many levels this place did not seem very inviting, and I am the hospitality lady. Tent after tent had their ropes tugged on, crumpled chip bags and empty water bottles gathered, and random bits of plastic and old cardboard boxes arranged into a sort of flooring. Tidy is my thing.

I circulated, checking in with my guests, but also getting pulled into translation gigs and answering questions. “Ask Christy, she knows everything.” There were newspapers, newscasters and even a pen and ink artist trying the capture “the human experience.”

One of those four-wheeled motor scooters roared up with two riders. They always made me nervous, often driven by the camouflage shirt sorts with MAGA hats who angrily accuse us of child trafficking or destroying America. But somebody waved a friendly hello and I watched a woman dismount and limp over to a near chair. She plopped down, and received a water bottle and carne asada with a weary smile. The bottoms of her feet were one solid, centimeter deep blister. She propped them up on a crate of water bottles.

This is her story, shared with me later on by the Honduran as we bounced back down the road to Tucson: I am from Guatemala, and I had a small store that I ran from the front window of my home. Things are very difficult, and we always had just enough. One day, two men came up to the store and looked me in the eye and said, “We are going to start charging rent. Give us so much money on Saturday, or you will die.” I begged. I said I didn’t make that much money in a week. They did not flinch, “See you Saturday.” I didn’t know whether they were cartel or gangs. I saved everything I could, but it wasn’t enough.

On Saturday, they showed up. “This isn’t enough. But we are kind. We will give you one more chance. Next Saturday you must give us the full amount, or you will die.”

On Monday I went to the State Office and told them that I was in fear for my life. The man behind the desk had me fill out a form. I asked what they could do. He said, “Nothing.”

I signed my name. He said, “Well, we can drive a police car around your neighborhood a couple times a week, but nothing else. You should emigrate.”

So I did. I left everything. I packed a backpack and took a bus, and another bus, and another bus. And when the buses ran out, I started walking. I walked seven days. And it felt like I was walking in circles. Around and around, Where was the wall? I haven’t eaten or drunk anything for three days. But then suddenly the wall was there. And I walked through a big hole and there was this ranch with cows and horses. I went to the door and the lady who answered couldn’t speak Spanish but she gave me water and food and then motioned for me to come with her.

I said, “Where are we going?”

She answered, “Ayuda.”

And I got on her vehicle and she took me here.

So I kept serving beans and tortillas.

Then Peter came up to me. “I gotta make trips. There are a lot of folk up at the end of the wall, and it is too long of a walk, so I am going to transport for a while.”

Technically, Samaritans don’t transport. It’s illegal to carry migrants north. And you can get thrown in jail, which is not such a big deal, maybe, but They will also confiscate your vehicle, which isn’t ours to lose. So don’t transport. But times are tough. Border Patrol is understaffed and exhausted, thirsty, hungry and cold asylum seekers can wait three or four days in the rain and wind waiting for BP to pass by and pick them up. And our lawyer has dug down deep. Actually, ain’t no one gonna convict folks driving parallel to the wall, only if we turn North. So Peter headed up and down and up and down the wall. And came back with a truck load, two families: five tiny children, two teens and four adults, exhausted, thirsty, hungry and cold.

The big television camera pushed into the scene, rolling. We opened the back of the camper, and lifted out weary souls. Cups of water were handed out, and small paper plates of carne asada and bean tacos. The families were gently led to one of my “tents,” plastic and cardboard, but tidy. And the cameras rolled.

“Talk about what is happening. Talk.”

And as I spoke of the journey, the heaped-up stories I have gathered over the years and years of welcoming, all I could hear was the whispers in the tent, “We are safe, we are safe.”

I wept.

The honor and joy of being part of a safe, albeit damp cardboard and half a roll of toilet paper space.

The honor and joy of it all.


* KPBS news, San Diego

Wednesday, September 9, 2020

Whispered Prayers

 Whispered Prayers, a Southside Psalm


Whispered prayers, “Raindrops of mercy”

As eyes and hearts look upward seeking

Billowing clouds with dark shadows of promise

“Dear LORD have mercy on us, wretched souls.”

 

Jegos, the wind before the rain, stirs

Heaps of swirled cumulonimbus heaving

Into a thunderous rumble, emitting

The one blasting lightning blow.

 

And the hills to which we lift up our eyes

Are aflame; each and every crevice blazing

Breaking news flashes across our line of vision,

Let justice roll down like dark smoke.

 

Mercy and justice are not two parallel fence posts

Which corral the love and power of the Living God;

Rather they are woven strands of beauty

Whose pattern is revealed with shifted stance.

 

Hear O heaven, and give ear, O earth;

For I the LORD have spoken.

And when ye spread forth your hands,

I will hide mine eyes from you:

Yea, when ye make many prayers, I will not hear:

Your hands are full of blood.

 

LORD, we kneel, weary and broken,

Hearts ripped open in repentance.

Our ears dull of hearing, and eyes unseeing.

Purge the dross that fouls our nation.

 

As we gaze across the charred landscape,

With only a splattering of pitter patters

Which threaten to loosen landslides of ashes,

Hope lies buried deep within, And yet.

 

Rooted and grounded in Love

Reaching down to the sturdy Rock

Against which no winds will prevail, no storm dislodge,

Green sprigs unfurl.

Thursday, February 27, 2020

Rest in the Wilderness.



Come to Me, all you who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take My yoke upon you and learn from Me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For My yoke is easy and My burden is light. Matthew 11:28-30

I am laboring to find Place; wandering in the Wilderness, laden with longing.

But surely, LORD, You are my shelter, nestled under Your wing, providing Enough each day, whether it be a welcoming gesture from Teena, or a teary thank you from Leticia, or a sweet, sweet letter from my Cuban detainee. You have sent me out, two by two, with You at my side. Give me the joyous freedom I felt on pilgrimage, because what is true is that we are but pilgrims.

I confess to seeking more than the goodness and mercy You provide. Let me embrace the Present. To receive with open hands and heart and mind the moment with joy and gratitude. May I truly get off my donkey and kneel down by You along the way, embrace You and look You in the eyes.

Father, Thank you for taking away the burden of our sin because Jesus destroyed its power on the cross.

I pray that you would use me to lighten the burden of the others that you bring to my attention today, that they may know that You are good, in Jesus’ name, amen.

Wednesday, February 26, 2020

Oneness in freedom and joy.


This became known both to all Jews and Greeks dwelling in Ephesus; and fear fell on them all, and the name of the Lord Jesus was magnified. Acts 19:17

The context of this verse reveals that it is a dreadful thing indeed to claim the name of Jesus to cover for your own agenda and purpose and glory. God used this rather dramatic story, that of the demon leaping up and overpowering the seven sons of the high priest until they fled the house, beaten and naked. The LORD Jesus is magnified through repentance (the believers confessing their sins, rejecting the powers of the world more interested in protecting their wealth and the way things have always been, burning their books) and living wholeheartedly with a single purpose.

Father, we ask you that You would purify us. That we might in humility and truth repent of “the books” in which we have placed our trust.  May we burn them, with freedom and joy and follow You unbound by fear and tradition to proclaim Your power and love, Your kingdom come.

I have joined together with a group of others, committed to oneness during this Lenten Season, forty days of repentance and purification. And freedom and joy. And oddly enough, a story of one who ran lightly on his toes in this great race of life bubbled up through the internet, the story of my daddy.

Unbound.

Yes LORD.

Embrace and welcome.


He sat down, called the twelve and said to them, “Whoever wants to be first must be last of all and servant of all.” Then He took a little child and put it among them; and taking it in His arms, He said to them, “Whosoever welcomes one such child in My name welcomes Me, and whoever welcomes Me, welcomes not Me but the One who sent Me. Mark 9:36-37


So this morning I paused and thought about what does it really mean to embrace and welcome this little child.  Because the context is not that of a little curly headed spunky one who puts on her own bike helmet and her momma’s glasses and her daddy’s big black boots and then smiles for the camera and the adventure of the day. Rather the context is that of the demon-possessed boy who foams and grinds his teeth and becomes rigid, and who needs prayer in order to cast out the evil spirit.

And the context is that the Son of Man is going to be delivered unto death. And on the third day he will be raised. And the disciples couldn’t think of anything to say.

And the immediate context is “If anyone would be first, he must be last of all and servant of all.”

All. Every single last one of them.

Embrace and welcome.

And every single day offers up opportunities for prayer. And for death. And for embracing. From the very moment that my foot first hits the pedal and I head out the gate, I am going to find His children, sweaty and smelly and grinding their collective teeth.

And my friend Cameron has a song about Here is the Church, here is the steeple, open the door and we are the people. I think. Something like that, and my heart rejoices as the Church opens her doors. Because I am pretty good at getting that sometimes the one is a fifth-grader on the sidewalk around the corner from school who I don’t know her name and it is way late after school and I am tired and she missed her ride and I can’t understand anything that she is saying except that she is weeping and she lives “West.”

But it goes deeper than that. And broader. And that is the reason I am at Southside. And the reason I became a deacon. To learn how to see and to walk and to embrace and welcome because you do it so well.

Because this is the Southside legacy, to see the child hidden deeply behind the scruffy beards and stinky clothes and rejected anger and desperate weariness. The child of God. Each and every one an image bearer. And to embrace and welcome.

To embrace and welcome Jesus as you push his wheelchair up and over the bumpy sidewalk into the waiting TransBus. To embrace and welcome Jesus as you kneel by her bed and share the last pew communion. To embrace and welcome Jesus as you restack the folding chairs yet one more time after serving crackers and cheese and veggies and juice and coffee to them.

Exactly the same way I embrace that little Simone singing, “Twinkle, twinkle little star” at the top of her lungs. Exactly.

O God, because without you we are not able to please you, mercifully grant that your Holy Spirit may in all things direct and rule our heart; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever. Amen.

Thursday, February 20, 2020

Affectionately.


Lord, how many and varied are Your works!
In wisdom You have made them all;
The earth is full of Your riches and Your creatures. Psalm 104:24

Last night as Uncle Jim and I waited in Room 766 at Tucson Medical Center for him to be wheeled off to pre-op and hip surgery we watched a couple of nature shows. Jim has spent a lot of time watching nature shows these past few years, those and old Westerns full of John Wayne types.

And even though he was struggling a bit with his vision, he said he could see the bright green chameleons and the sort-of-snuggly orangutans and the teeny tiny baby crabs.

I pretty much think that I too struggle with my vision most of the time as well, in that I am not overwhelmed with awe with every breath. My morning prayers try to shove me in the right direction, with a slightly varied daily meditation on Presence:
I reflect for a moment on God's presence around me and in me.
Creator of the universe, the sun and the moon, the earth,
every molecule, every atom, everything that is:
God is in every beat of my heart. God is with me, now.

But somehow it is only a moment. Even though every morning I dutifully add to my gratitude list, determinedly working my way to 10,000, even more.

Not a fall-on-the-face wonder.

Last night I hung out with some old friends, and one of them, Becky Glad talked about how six weeks on El Camino impacted her life… six weeks in His breathtaking beauty with no distractions, bathed in awe.

And as much as I would love to use that conversation as an excuse to drop everything and pilgrim, I know that is not the solution.

His Presence is here, even now.

Here in my still little home with the fluttering fire and the distant train whistle just as the sky is starting to brighten, reading and rereading Psalm 104.

Here kneeling next to Jim who was actually pretty perky even though he had lots of tubes stuck in him and a quite brusk nurse.

Here with the oddly gathered group nibbling Trader Joe salsa and olives planning how we can be of comfort to the detained.

Here as I try not to rush through the day with my cluttered and discouraged thoughts but to pause, breathe, and declare:
Bless and affectionately praise the Lord, O my soul.
Praise the Lord! (Hallelujah!)

Huh. Affectionately. The Amplified Bible’s take on our vision.

So be it.