But wanting to justify himself, he asked Jesus, “And who is my neighbor?”

May the Lord silence all flattering lips
    and every boastful tongue—
those who say,
    “By our tongues we will prevail;
    our own lips will defend us—who is lord over us?”

 “Because the poor are plundered and the needy groan,
    I will now arise,” says the Lord.
    “I will protect them from those who malign them.” Psalm 12:3-5

My advent word for the day is journey.

Yesterday I took a journey.

Tom shook his head firmly. “Nope, those sandals aren’t good enough for what we are going to be doing today.”

I slid off my favorite Keens who had tromped all over the Zagros Mountains of Kurdish Iraq, the Apennines of Italy and Blackett’s Ridge of the Coronado National Forest, and wiggled into the hefty boots gifted to me by a fellow swimmer.

We stacked the back of the red SUV with gallon jugs of water and squeezed in the first aid kit and a few blankets, just in case. I was the only newbie and I settled into the backseat to listen to stories. The back seat of Joe the truck.

The very night that New Times published an article detailing Joe Arpaio’s “breathtaking abuse of the constitution” he sent his deputies to handcuff and arrest the two reporters for violating “Grand Jury secrecy.” They filed a lawsuit about wrongful arrest, Maricopa County Board of Supervisors unanimously approved a $3.75 million-dollar settlement against Arpaio; the reporters are using the money to “help those who fight the good fight against government actors who attack the most vulnerable among us,” including the Samaritans, who received funds for a truck as well as maintenance and fuel for a year. Hence the name of the truck, Joe. 

We bounced along past the border crossing at Sasaabe, past lots and lots of green and white border patrol trucks, past army jeeps full of grey camouflaged soldiers and past equally camouflaged hunters, here for the last two weeks of deer hunting season. Samaritans always wave and smile and chat with everyone along the way. Pretty much everyone else waves back. Our truck is clearly labeled “Los Samaritanos” and the folks I am traveling with have made this journey many times.

We checked out the new barbed wire spirals festooning The Wall. We have heard that the national guard folks are not too happy about spending their holidays in the one-grocery store town of faded crumpled adobe and tattered trailer parks. But at least it is beautiful. The desert is vibrant with pools of rainwater reflecting the mostly white-just-edged-in-grey clouds blowing across a very bright blue sky. The morning mist which had been resting in hollows had lifted, and the brisk air felt ever so joyful.

The plan was to take water to the very-well-used drop at the base of Cerro del Fresnal, the mountain east of Sasabe whose peak is in Mexico and across whose shoulder the border runs.

Then we'd check on a second nearby and less-well-used drop. From there we'd walk along the border fence towards Sasabe, to identify any additional crossing points and trails in this area -- where Sam folk haven't done comprehensive exploration and trail mapping. The primary reason for the exploration was John Fife saying at last week's meeting that if people from the caravans work their way east from Tijuana, they could cross at any point where they find it easy to cross and that we should have a strong presence along the border. Things are not going well in Tijuana.

We also carried big garbage bags to haul out trash, mostly empty jugs left behind: the clear ones from previous Samaritans, and the black gallon jugs from Mexico, black so they don’t reflect night spotlights.  Everything is inspected pretty carefully, checking dates and condition of the plastic. Some of the jugs had obviously been left in the last day or two. There were odd bits of sausage wrappings and empty tuna cans, and a couple of blankets that we hauled out as well, to wash and replenish the shed at BorderLinks.

It was very good to be wearing the big boots once I got used clumping rather than scrambling up the pointy black rocks. I was pretty good at missing the myriad cow pies which decorated the light trail, but the gathered cholla buds made my feet and legs look like a baubled tree.

We ate lunch on a hill overlooking the rolling plains and I heard the history of the Samaritans and Humane Borders and No More Deaths from Michael, who was there from the very beginning. Brian was the map guy, and knew every cranny of these hills, while Lisette knew everything about everything happening in Tucson and lives just down the street from me. She went to UHS with Dre, of course.

But as we made our way along the arrow-straight barbed wire fence, it was clear that we were not going to find many new migrant paths under the eagle-eyed surveillance tower and the blasting rifle shots echoing in all directions. We decided to visit two more frequented drops, one of which had been attacked by some thirsty beasts; most likely ravens had shredded through the plastic without tipping them over.

And that was it. Home again, home again, through Arivipa, smiling our way through a couple more road blocks.

Is it worth it, these almost daily drives by Samaritans? I thought about it as I just about dozed off in the back seat of Joe. I got stuck on the commandment to “Love your neighbor as yourself.” The Tijuana thing isn’t doing it. We have a stinking lousy border policy. There is absolutely nothing biblical about it, Old or New Testament. And then there is that verse about a cup of water.

That pretty much does it for me.

Wrong turns are inevitable.

Yet every turn of such a journey opens up new horizons.

Yep.