And I prayed. I prayed with desperation and with hope. I prayed because I would never know what happened. I prayed as an acknowledgement that their lives were out of my hands and that I could only trust in God’s power.

Often they would give me small gifts – a bracelet, a ring, a drawing of a rose, a note. And with each of these gifts they would say “so that you do not forget us.” I would be moved but also slightly amused by that statement. Of course, I could never forget my migrant friends.

But I also realized that there would be a point in my transition back to the US when living with their stories became a little more normal. When perhaps the blog posts would trickle off and my focus would become more on the here-and-now of everyday life at Georgetown. And in some ways, that is true. I am called to be present wherever I am. And that means studying and serving here in DC.

But it doesn’t mean that I stop thinking of the migrants. I remember the border every morning when I put on the bracelet and the ring. I remember my migrant friends as we talk about theoretical conceptions of the border or identity or refugees or integration policy in my classes. I remembered them vividly when I watched a documentary on Central American migrants – and recognized a migrant in one of the scenes. And of course I remember them weekly when I serve in Chirilagua or with day laborers in northeast DC.

And most of all the transition back does not mean that I stop praying. I pray for them whenever I have a meal by myself and can simply sit and remember the comedor. I pray for them on Thursday nights at mass. I pray for them for hours. I pray for them in small moments of the day whenever my memory is triggered.

If prayer in Nogales was an acknowledgement that I was powerless to control or know the futures of the migrants I met, prayer from here in DC is a realization that I do still have some power. That is to say, I believe in a powerful God who loves his people and listens to our prayers. I believe in a God who asks us to bring our petitions before Him. So I pray to him because I know that from here in DC I am called to love my migrant brothers and sisters who continue to journey.

So let us pray. I know that many of you who read this blog were praying for me and my work in the fall. Thank you for your prayers and support. But please don’t stop praying. Please continue to pray for my migrant friends. Because the journeys continue.

The tag line of Casa Chirilagua (the ministry that I volunteer with in an immigrant community in Alexandria) is “Learning together to love our neighbors as ourselves.” I have quoted the line before but it continues to strike me as I transition back into life in the US. It is so simple. And yet so difficult.

For many, the US/Mexico border seems like another world – distant enough to not be a primary concern. But as I come back, I am reminded of why I left. I went to the border because immigration is not just an issue there. It is a matter of loving my neighbor here in the US.

Last weekend, I went almost to another border – all the way north to Minnesota – as I had the privilege to go to St. Mary’s Catholic Church where I learned about their town and congregation and spoke about my experiences on the border. The two priests of this parish did not wake up one morning and decide to make immigration an issue. They decided to love their parishioners as best as they could and create a church that is a place of welcome and community. And they have made a church that is a home to a large immigrant population in the town – many of whom work at the local meatpacking plant.

The whole weekend was a reminder that there is a journey outside of the border. Many of the immigrants I met in Minnesota spoke to me about passing North through Nogales, or about their experience of deportation. I sat down with them, with an atole and hand-made tortillas in front of me, and spoke with migrants thousands of miles away from the comedor. But with people that once were on the border and know that they can easily end up there again.

After I spoke at one of the English masses at St. Mary’s a woman approached me and asked, “How can I help?” I think she was referring to supporting the Kino Border Initiative but I said to her, “You can help the most by loving your neighbor right here in Worthington.”

When I was in Nogales, I met people who had worked on housekeeping or upkeep at various universities. Who had worked in restaurants that I could feasibly have visited. Who had been in high schools across the country. Open your eyes and your heart. Your migrant brothers and sisters are in your church, at your school, and in your daily life. What would it look like for you to love them? For you to welcome them?

I am also always impressed by the service the migrants dedicate to helping the comedor. They do not have many resources, but they contribute what they can. After every meal, 6 to 8 migrants stay to wash dishes. Often the same ones volunteer day after day and not only wash dishes but clean out sinks and sweep floors. I tell them that they are under no obligation to help – that they can let others work too – but they continue working, saying it is the least that they can do. Once a migrant was deported from Phoenix and some friends crossed the border to bring him clothing and other possessions. They also brought us a box of clothing donations that were exactly what the migrants needed – because they knew the precise needs of deported migrants. And then there were one or two migrants who asked how they could make a monetary donation to Kino. They said that it would not be much but that they wanted to give what they could. I was reminded of the parable of the widow throwing her last coin into the offering plate. They don’t just accept charity. They do what they can to help, support, and give back.

After four months of experiencing constant generosity, it is encouraging to see that the spirit of service is not limited to Nogales. After my dentist appointment last week, my dental hygienist asked if the migrants needed toothbrushes because she wanted to donate a case of toothbrushes to the project. Even someone who helps in my dad’s cousin’s senior apartments emailed to ask how she could contribute to the migrants. It is incredible how many people are just waiting for an opportunity to be generous and support others.

So if my last blog post was about radical hospitality, there is also something to be said for simple generosity. For opening ourselves up to see what small part we can play in God’s great work. Elisa Morgan wrote a book entitled She Did What She Could, inspired off of the story in Mark 14 where Mary anoints Jesus’ feet with oil. Jesus responds to Mary’s gesture by saying “She did what she could.” What if we all simply did what we could?

As we celebrated a posada for the migrants last Saturday, I considered the parallels between Mary and Joseph’s experience in Bethlehem and the journey of the migrants.

I never faulted the innkeepers in the Biblical story. They didn’t turn Mary and Joseph away out of malice. Their considerations were very practical. The rooms were all booked. Joseph hadn’t thought to call ahead and make a reservation. He wasn’t willing to wait his turn in line. How would I feel as an inn guest asked to share my nice, quiet room with a very pregnant woman?

While I was driving with my best friend this week, she asked “have you ever thought about what would happen if you invited a homeless person off of the street to live in your house?” Numerous practical concerns came to mind. Sustainability. Enabling. Dependency relationships. Simple generosity unable to solve systemic problems. Objections just as legitimate as those that the innkeepers presented to Mary and Joseph.

And then of course there are the many migrants who ask me “we receive North Americans with open arms in Mexico – why do they not welcome us in the same way?” Again, there are some legitimate reasons for an orderly immigration system. To promote integration and a better life for immigrants in the country. To manage state and local budgets. (Side note: there are also solid economic reasons for a more liberal immigration system.)

As I return to Georgetown it seems to be time to think more realistically. To develop policy proposals that give me a legitimate chance of winning fellowships. To think concretely about immigration reforms that might actually pass and how I can make money to support myself even in a future focused on helping immigrants.

And yet. Sometimes in our hospitality we are called to be radical and not just practical. Because sometimes by being radically and uncomfortably open to receiving the stranger we actually might be inviting in Jesus’ parents. We may be opening a space for Jesus to lie his infant head.

As hard as it is to always see the migrants who I love leave I know that it is much better for them to move on. It broke my heart to see a 19 year old kid full of life and goofiness fall under the influences of drugs in the streets of Nogales as he stayed for too long while trying to gather money to cross again. I work often with mothers who just want to find a way to leave Nogales in order to be with their children – whether that means returning to their homes in Mexico or attempting to return to their homes in the US. This desire to move on is especially strong in the Christmas season where every celebration seems to make the migrants more homesick.

I always remind the migrants that life neither begins nor ends here in Nogales. This is a short stop in the journey and they have other places to go. So as I say goodbye to migrants every day I do so with hope because they are moving on.

It is much more difficult to convince myself that I too have to leave. In the past four months, this has become my home. I share a meal every day with a community of women who teach me about practicalities of life, humility, hard work, love, and God. Every week I see the same wonderful people who are committed to serving the migrants by helping us in the comedor. I work with Jesuits who are as different from each other as can be but that in that difference have expanded my understanding of the world. I have my routines, my quirks, my traditions, my jokes with the migrants, my songs, and my prayers.

And yet I am a 20 year old college student and my life neither begins nor ends in Nogales. I love every day that I have the privilege to spend time with the migrants. But just as this time comes for every migrant, today it was time for me to say goodbye.

But it is goodbye with a promise. A promise that I gave to the migrants this morning. That I will not forget them. I will not forget their stories, their love, their hope, their faith, their tears, or their smiles. I am leaving not because I no longer want to be in Nogales but because it is time to move on to continue walking in the path that God has set out for me. I told the migrants that I cannot take them with me to the US but that I will carry them in my heart and in my prayers. That I will continue sharing their stories and working towards justice.

I have already left Nogales but I think that at least for a little while I will continue to maintain this blog. I still have many stories to tell. And these migrants still need someone to tell them.

When I entered the jail to speak with her via the video conference system (most US jails are phasing out in-person visits) I physically felt her despair at being behind bars. She was facing a month of following strict orders while being confined to an enclosed area. With good reason many migrants who are accustomed to life in the open air, small towns, or in the fields fear and dread the prospect of long jail sentences for illegal reentry.

But this blog isn’t just about confinement. It is about liberty. It is about the migrant who walks into our comedor on his first day of freedom after a 3 month jail term for illegal reentry. Or the woman who comes in praising God after spending 18 months in detention pleading an asylum case that she eventually lost. Or even the older man who stands up during prayer to share that it is his first day on the outside after serving 33 years on a felony conviction.

There is something quite powerful about meeting someone in their first day of liberty in months or years. They have a confidence brought about by the freedom to choose their next steps. To breathe the outside air and go walking down the street without advising anybody.

At times this liberty is a passing sensation. They face the desire to cross again to be with their families but in the process risk many more months in jail. They consider the entrapment of poverty that seems to limit all options and escapes. They feel the pressure of their families – such as one 16 year old boy who cried and cried as he said that he didn’t want to cross again but his older sister told him that they had to in order to support their sick mother.

In the end, real freedom has to be something more than a feeling that comes in the moment of release from jail. Real freedom cannot be taken away. As today’s mass readings prophesy, Jesus was sent “to proclaim liberty to the captives and release to the prisoners” (Isaiah 61). As I walk with migrants who are enjoying their first moments of physical freedom, I am growing to better understand this spiritual freedom. Where in spite of all of our constraints Jesus has miraculously released us from sin. We are incredibly free. And much like the joy of liberty that migrants often experience, this freedom is not something that can be perfectly described. To be understood, it has to be lived.

This Sunday I shared a prayer of Advent with the women in our shelter. Here is an excerpt:

Tiempo de espera,
de atención y cuidados,
de respeto y contemplación.Señor,
hay mucho dolor en nuestro tiempo,
hay sufrimiento e injusticia,
ayúdanos a sembrar
semillas de esperanza.

Time of waiting,
of attention and care,
of respect and contemplation. Lord,
there is much pain in our time,
there is suffering and injustice,
help us plant
seeds of hope.

Esperan. They hope. Because that is how these migrants have chosen to live. The hope of a job in Mexico that might fund their children’s education. The hope of making it to the other side. The hope that they will be able to help aging parents or sick siblings in some small but critically important way. But most of all the hope that God gives them in his presence and his promise.

Sometimes hope can seem so irrational here. What right do these migrants have to hope after in many ways failing in their dreams? But that is what makes hope so beautiful. It often isn’t rational. It is transcendent. It is the confidence in a good, loving, and powerful God. It is the belief that we and all creation are eagerly waiting for a new and better future. Sometimes it is only living in the middle of a desperate situation that we grasp how important that hope is.

Pero esperan. But they wait. Many come here with dashed hopes and uncertain plans. As much as they learn to hope, they also learn to wait. To be patient with God’s plan for the world. A patience so hard that it hurts. A wait that often makes me want to cry out and say “can’t you just fix it all God??!” But a patience that helps us understand God’s heart as he waits for ours to soften and accept and follow him.

The time of Advent makes room for hope and for patient waiting. And reminds us that both are part of our daily lives – whether or not Christmas is around the corner.

So I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that when I played the song below for the women, they began to sing along because it contains words that they know well. A cry that they often repeat in their journeys.

When we pray and speak in the comedor, the migrants give thanks for their lives. Because they could have just as easily died in the desert. They give thanks for the food in front of them. Because some did not eat for days while they were in Border Patrol detention or in the desert. They give thanks for their family. Because they know the pain of separation from their loved ones. They give thanks for the people who serve them. Because they have encountered many who were more likely to abuse them than help them.

I can grow numb to the constant thanks that I receive as I work with the migrants. But sometimes I just stop and let what they say sink in. Let myself be conscious of just how important each piece of light is in a time of darkness.

Thankfulness is a state in which nothing is taking for granted. Every simple blessing is held loosely with the knowledge that it is a gift from God. And that is why thanksgiving is so powerful here on the border.

So I am learning to give thanks for the blessings that surround me. For the privilege to live and work with people so committed to loving God and loving their neighbor. For my parents who would give up a vacation to spend Thanksgiving working with me here. For the opportunity to learn every day from the migrants who accept and love me in my gringaness. For the many people who have donated money, food, clothing, and time to make this service possible. The list goes on for quite some time. In summary, below is a photo of all that I have written down for which I am grateful this semester.

It is a thankfulness that makes one want to give more because all is held so loosely. A gratitude that inspires the migrants to help as much as they can in the comedor whether by washing dishes or wiping tables. A gratitude that fills me with joy when I can give my winter clothing to someone who needs it more – even if it is my high school “J-Fo” swim sweatshirt loaded with sentimental value.

The migrants are teaching me every moment to lose my sense of entitlement and settle into the simple openness of gratitude that allows me to turn and praise God for every moment. And for that lesson I am eternally grateful.

When groups visit and ask me about my work I always end up saying “these are people that I love.”

And love changes everything. Migrants often mention to me that they are embarrassed by the fact that they haven’t showered for days and constantly wear the same dirty clothes. I don’t see it that way. To me, they are beautiful when they walk in our door. I spend plenty of time in mundane tasks – sweeping floors, washing dishes, setting tables – but they never seem boring when done in love.

I used to think a lot about the unjust fact that I always have an exit route. If I burn out I can always escape the poverty and look for a well-paying job when I graduate with my Georgetown education. But after 3 months here I have reached a point where pulling out is not so easy. I can’t even go back to school without remembering the man who is trying to cross again to help his 17-year-old US citizen daughter pay for her college education.

As Henri Nouwen writes, service does not get easier as time goes on – it can become much harder. At a certain point we transition from emotion to conviction. I don’t serve because it makes me feel good about myself. I serve because I love these migrants and God has called me to be present with them and fight for them.

That conviction comes from a passage that I have already cited twice in this blog. “We love because he first loved us.” God’s love is what gets me up in the morning and lets me sleep at night.

What would it look like if we all opened our hearts to receive his love and commit with conviction to loving our neighbors?

Mr. President Barack Obama:

I send you a cordial greeting and am hoping that someday you may have time to read my letter. I am an immigrant who has illegally crossed the border of your country, a woman who has suffered abuse and humiliation from migration officials who treat us as if we were animals. They hit us even though we may be women or kids. They do not have any respect for us and all that we want is to work. But they don’t see it that way. They see us as delinquents and treat us accordingly. I beg you to please be more considerate with all migrants. We are people who migrate because we do not have economic resources to sustain our family. For us women it is not easy to leave our kids and our families to come to the US and suffer because they do not pay us what they should but instead exploit us even when we are there fighting for our families. Once a migration official asked me if I did not know how to enter the US legally. I answered that I did know but did not have the economic resources to obtain a visa. The official insulted me and all of us who were in detention. They are people who have a very hard heart.

Sincerely,

A woman migrant