Two days in a mission worker’s diary

Sunday, May 14, 10:30 a.m.

I arrived at Sol de Justicia Presbyterian Church in Nogales, Sonora, about a half-hour early for the scheduled worship service. Today was to be pastor Jocabed Gallegos’ last Sunday at the church—she is moving from Nogales. She’s leaving after the service to finish moving her belongings from the rented house she’s been sharing with her brother, Chuy. He’s getting married in Longmont, Colorado on the 20th and she will be at the wedding. After that, Jocabed will be going to Greenville, South Carolina, to help care for her mother who has just been diagnosed with breast cancer. That’s the real reason she’s leaving Nogales. 

I noticed four young men sitting in the shade on a curb near the church. I greeted them in Spanish, “Hóla, buenos días.” They responded in a friendly way, so I asked them if they were here for the service. “Sí,” they responded in unison. So I struck up a conversation, knowing that we had lots of time before the service was to start. They were all from Honduras, from the northern city of San Pedro Sula. One of the men was more talkative than the others, so he responded to my questions. He said they had come north by train, riding on top of the car, traveling for 18 days to get to Nogales. He didn’t explain how they had crossed two hostile borders—Guatemala and México—to get here. I wanted to know how they managed to sleep. “We took turns,” he answered, “with two staying awake and keeping watch while two of us slept.” And food?  “People threw food to us as we passed through towns and cities,” he said. I asked if they were planning to cross into the U.S. to work? “Yes, there are no jobs for us in Honduras,” the spokesman replied, “and there is lots of work in the United States.”

I reminded them of the dangers of crossing the Arizona desert: the rattlesnakes, scorpions, thieves, cactus. But they seemed determined to make the journey, so it seemed that nothing I might say would discourage them.

Today is Mother’s Day in the U.S., so I asked them how their mothers felt about their leaving Honduras to travel so far in search of jobs. They all answered this question, saying their mothers were all opposed to their going. “But each of our mothers gave us money for the trip,” said one. “That’s love,” I told them, and all nodded their heads.

Excusing myself, I left them on the curb and went to a nearby house to talk with one of the church members. Because she was still packing, Jocabed arrived late so the service was about 45 minutes late in starting. They were gone when worship finally started.

Monday, May 15, 6:45 a.m.

Near the end of my three-mile morning walk, in a remote area northeast of Nogales, Arizona, I noticed a Border Patrol vehicle parked alongside the road, partially hidden in the desert foliage of mesquite and palo verde trees. Moments later, an agent of “la migra” (Border Patrol) was running parallel to me, in uniform and loaded down with gear, on the other side of a barbed wire cattle fence. He was carrying his automatic rifle and was talking intermittently on a two-way radio with other agents. I could tell they were closing in on someone. As I walked on the roadway, he ran in the scrub and cactus. It occurred to me that he doesn’t know whether he’s tracking a group of unarmed migrants or a gang of drug smugglers, since both frequently use the trails near our home. This was the first time I felt that I might be in a dangerous spot. We were about a quarter-mile from my house when a Border Patrol vehicle whizzed by me, then turned around quickly and came back, stopping just ahead of me. Two agents jumped out, automatic rifles in hand, shouting to the agent who had been running near me. “Here they come!” they yelled. Suddenly, four men emerged from the high grasslands and mesquite trees on my right. They looked to me like typical migrants, each carrying nothing more than a daypack and a gallon water jug. They ran across the road in front of me, pursued by the two men from the truck, then quickly climbed over a barbed wire fence and continued running. Moments later, another agent came running up to join in the chase. “Mornin’, sir” he said to me, “have a good day.”

“You too,” I told him. And then I whispered a prayer, “God, keep them all safe and help us to learn how to live in your peace.” The agent who had been running near me came along next, walking now and trying to catch his breath.

Were the four migrants the same Hondurans I had met yesterday? I’ll never know. But they were certainly in my thoughts as I witnessed this chase, a typical scene that is repeated many times daily along the 2,000-mile border that the U.S. shares with México.

The immigration debate has heated up lately, with loud voices on both extremes claiming to have simple solutions for situations that are too complicated to be easily solved. Tonight President Bush is making a televised speech to the nation to address the border crisis … we’ll see what happens next.

“When an alien lives with you in your land, do not mistreat him. The alien living with you must be treated as one of your native-born. Love him as yourself, for you were aliens in Egypt. I am the Lord your God.”
Leviticus 19:33-34

Dave Thomas, Mission Co-Worker

The 2006 Mission Yearbook for Prayer & Study, p. 66