The first time I went to Mexico on a border delegation, odd years ago, I neither had nor needed a passport. We were there to bear witness to what my colleague Jean Stokan, who was also on the trip, might call the face of the crucified Christ among us.
In the story the young mother at the diocesan shelter told us about sleeping under the Paso del Norte Bridge for four nights, in the wind and cold, with just a foil blanket for protection. We, with our coats for the daytime and extra blankets for the night, had no idea El Paso could be so cold.
She had only the clothes on her back, and a feverish, coughing toddler in tow. When they departed the shelterβfed, showered, bound for her father and brother in Marylandβit was warm outside, but the girl was zipped up tight in a donated pink snowsuit with a white faux fur-trimmed hood.
Her mother was taking no chances this time. We did our best to get them to their gates safely, and prayed that a kind stranger in Chicago or Newark or New Orleans would get them to the next place, and the next, and that they would be safe once they arrived there.
Everyone we metβColumban Fr. Bob Mosher, our tireless host; Columban Fr. Peter Hinde at Casa Tabor; the quietly powerful Dr. For a few hours, in a basement meeting room turned clothing dispensary, did we, too, reflect the face of Christ to our migrant sisters and brothers? Migrants painted it, and they painted Christ to look like them. Because he does. If you are interested in learning more, click here. Sisters of Mercy stories Seeing the crucified Christ on the border.
