Sometimes it takes getting lost to remind me just how comforting it is to be taken care of—to be invited to sit down for a rest, to be offered a good set of directions or advice about where to catch the right bus. But as many times as I’ve been stranded in an unfamiliar place, it’s nothing compared to the experience of a recently returned migrant on the U.S.-Mexican border.

What a relief to know that in Agua Prieta, they are met with grace by the Migrant Resource Center.

The communities of Douglas, Arizona and Agua Prieta, Sonora reach out to our migrant brothers and sisters in a time of great vulnerability. They acknowledge the humanity of each weary traveler and serve them in any way possible as they continue on their journeys.

Consider joining Frontera de Cristo by supporting the Migrant Resource Center, buying Just Coffee and staying educated about the issues affecting our migrant brothers and sisters.

This ministry of Frontera de Cristo plays a vital role on the border. During my month in Mexico, I had the opportunity to spend time with the Migrant Resource Center as well as Café Justo, a partner of Frontera that is providing economic opportunities to coffee farmers who are able to work and live in their home communities.

At the root of this very complicated “immigration situation” are individuals. And in this time, when immigration is causing so many debates and ideological differences, our understanding of what our neighbors are experiencing is critical.

Read more to learn how Frontera de Cristo lives out Jesus’ call for social justice on the border. Consider joining them in their work on the border or by changing your regular coffee brand for Café Justo’s!

Better yet, we have all the information you need to volunteer to sell Café Justo’s product to your friends, church or neighborhood.

The Borderline

If this is the U.S., what’s on the other side of that fence?

Click here to read this travel guide…

Go and Do Likewise

What if instead of, “A man was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho,” Jesus started with, “A man was going down from Tucson to Mexico City.”

Click here to read this article…

Blistered but not Broken

People arrive here caught in the middle of much larger issues than what the Migrant Center and its volunteers can address alone, but at least in this place they can provide some relief to the travelers.

Click here to read this article…

I Called My Mom

It’s hard to look a young woman in the eye who has just risked everything to gain opportunities I was born with.

Click here to read this article…

Photo Gallery: An Ugly Journey

Take a walk along the border and get a glimpse of what many migrants experience in their journey from Mexico to the U.S. …

Click here to see this photo gallery…

Social Justice in a Cup

As I write this, I’m enjoying my morning coffee, and I’m not just enjoying it because it tastes good…

Click here to read this article…

I Hope this Bus Goes to Mexico City

Why use a plane when a bus can (sort of) get you there in 48 hours?

Click here to read this travel journal…

An Unexpected Homecoming

I’ve watched dozens of migrants embark on this journey home, but this is the first time I’ve seen what it looks like to arrive.

Click here to read this article…

Consume with a Conscience

This is where being a responsible consumer can support the economies of poor communities, keep families together and maybe even save lives. This is what it means to drink Just Coffee…

Click here to read this article…

Where Does Your Coffee Come From?

Follow coffee from Salvador Urbina, Chiapas all the way to the United States!

Click here to see this photo gallery…

For as much as I love my morning cup of coffee, I know very little about what it takes for it to get from the plant to my cup. But thanks to the people of Café Justo, I’m seeing the whole process!

Café Justo is dedicated to providing a fair price to coffee growers so they can live and work in their home communities, send their children to school, have health insurance and live comfortably.

The cooperative includes growers and roasters, allowing Café Justo to capture all the revenue from the production and sale of the final product. The coffee comes from four different cooperatives throughout Mexico to Agua Prieta, where it’s processed and exported.

Follow coffee from Salvador Urbina, Chiapas all the way to the United States!

Salvador Urbina is straight out of a fairytale. Towering, mist-coated mountains surround a valley of colorful churches and houses, interspaced with tropical flowers and fruit trees that give shade to community members who stop to visit with one another on their way down the road.

And trust me—there’s always someone to visit with in Urbina.

Felix, walking among the coffee in Urbina.

Most days, I take a walk and return three hours later after being invited in by the friend of a friend, or sharing a soda with a shopkeeper, or sitting on someone’s porch to listen to him play the guitar and watch the afternoon rain .

Two favorite topics of conversation? The United States and coffee.

Around Town

It’s not uncommon for somebody to approach me on the street with a few words of English they picked up while working eight years in Florida, six months in California or three years traveling the U.S. as a seasonal worker. We laugh about the difference in cultures and how the food is so much better in Mexico.

Then, of course, we chat about coffee.

Nepha, Felix and Reynaldo in the Urbina Café Justo Bodega.

Coffee cultivation sustains many families in this town, and they’ve been eager to share the process with me. I spend many days at the Bodega, where coffee is dried or processed, and sometimes I venture higher into the mountains with Felix, one of the Café Justo associates.

“Laura,” he cautions me, “you probably shouldn’t walk up here alone.”

“Should I be worried?” I ask, as I create space between myself and the young men we pass carrying machetes.

“About these guys? No. They’re farmers. You just might get lost.”

Hard Work

It turns out the machete comes in handy when navigating the thick brush of the hills of Urbina. These coffee plants don’t grow in open fields—they grow on mountainsides, between banana trees in dense, rain-soaked soil.

One of the Café Just associates out in his coffee land.

By the time we reach the fields, I’m usually drenched in sweat, signaling to everyone that yes, I’m foreign.

Naturally, the farmers are more acclimated to the work. And this time of year they spend hours hiking around their fields, evaluating individual plants, pruning dead branches and checking for diseases.

As much as I love learning about the plants and the process from these farmers, my favorite question is very simple:

“Do you like working in coffee?”

My inquiry is usually met with a resounding, “Of course!” paired with a smile and shrug as if to say, isn’t it obvious?

Staying Here

Felix and Nepha removing the husks from coffee beans.

What could be better? The Café Justo associates are working with the land, providing a delicious product for others, and economically sustaining their families in the process.

“Before, many of our children were leaving the community,” Reynaldo, Urbina cooperative president tells me. “It was very hard for us. But now, they can stay here,” he says while motioning to the view of the valley.

I think about all of the people here who’ve told me about their time in the U.S., and looking out over the houses, I wonder how many homes are missing a son, daughter, father or brother because of economic migration.

At least for the thirty associates in the Urbina Café Justo cooperative, migration is not a necessity. At least this small handful of people can work in something they love and see their families every day instead of every two years.

But I remember what Daniel told me on the border:

Still, there are people that don’t participate in the cooperative. We need to work hard so that someday, they can join. All of this depends on the demand.

Work to be Done

Because of the success of the Urbina cooperative, Café Justo is now in three other communities in Mexico. But as Daniel said, there is still work to be done.

Front porch in Urbina.

This is where being a responsible consumer can support the economies of poor communities, keep families together and maybe even save lives. This is what it means to drink Just Coffee.

Volunteers across the country receive shipments of Just Coffee and sell it to their neighbors or set up booths at their churches. They’re not asking for donations to help support our brothers and sisters south of the border, they’re just asking for people to change their daily coffee habit.

It’s that simple.

Not many of us will have the opportunity to sit on a front porch here in Urbina and take in the beauty of this place. But many of us know the simple beauty in sharing a meal with our own families, celebrating birthdays with friends or driving around our neighborhoods to see Christmas lights in December.

We know what it’s like to be home.

How great that our choice in coffee can help others experience that same privilege.

I’ve spent three weeks in the Migrant Resource Center watching volunteers counsel migrants through the “what next?” question. After journeying to the border, after attempting to cross into the U.S. illegally, after being detained by U.S. immigration and returned, is it time for them to head home or time to head back into the desert?

For migrants like Angel, a free bus ticket home (one of the services offered by the Mexican government) helped him decide to make the return journey south.

The bridge over the highway in Angel’s neighborhood

I’ve watched dozens of migrants embark on this journey home, but this is the first time I’ve seen what it looks like to arrive. During our two day bus journey together, Angel told me about his parents, his siblings and his nieces and nephew. I could tell by the way he lit up while talking about them that he was excited to go home.

We stopped in front of a faded pink wall, painted with an advertisement for fresh tortillas. Like everything else on the street, it was closed up for the night.

“Aquí?” I asked Angel, hopeful after a long walk uphill through the winding alleyways of Mexico City.

“Aquí,” he said, his gaze fixed on the second story window.

His eyes didn’t waver as he set down my heavy backpack at his feet. He raised his hands to his mouth and let out a series of shrill, distinct whistles. I raised my eyes to the same window just in time to see a round-faced woman cautiously peel back one of the curtains.

“Did you tell her you were coming?” I asked.

He looked sideways at me with a sheepish grin, “No.”

Angel’s home outside of Mexico City

We looked back at the window to watch the now beaming woman struggle against the window latch with urgency and push back the panes of dirty glass.

“Angel?!” she gasped.

“Sí, Mama.”

She hurled the house keys at us with so much enthusiasm that we barely jumped out the way in time. Angel collected them from the pavement, and we made our way up the cement staircase, ducking under clothes lines.

We stepped into the orange kitchen where Angel’s parents stood waiting. I held my breath and looked from Angel to his mom and dad, both frozen in their corner of the room, watching their son walk back through the door.

I hadn’t thought about what their reaction might be to his return. How did they feel? Were they upset? Had they been counting on Angel finding work in the U.S.?

His parents looked him up and down, inspecting him for marks from his journey, then rushed forward and wrapped Angel in a crushing hug. After two weeks of uncertainty, their son was home—he wasn’t wandering through a desert somewhere or locked up in a foreign detention center. He was home.

Angel holding his baby nephew, Juanito

I pretended not to notice as Angel’s mom turned away to wipe her tears. The homecoming may not have been expected, but it was most welcomed.

I felt encouraged knowing Angel was returning to this place to reclaim his role as a son, brother and uncle. I only hope the rest of our brother and sister migrants returning home are walking into homes like Angel’s home- where no matter how far they’ve wandered and no matter what they have or haven’t accomplished, they have an irreplaceable value to a family and community somewhere.

“Right now?!”

“Right now. They’re at the Migrant Resource Center,” said Phil, hanging up his phone.

I was supposed to catch this bus Friday, but it was a holiday…then Monday, but it was full…and now it was Tuesday, three hours before I was supposed to leave, and I was running errands on the U.S. side of the border.

I turned south and started power walking towards the port of entry into Mexico. I turned it down a few gears to stroll casually past the immigration guards, then bolted the last stretch to the doors of the MRC.

“Ay! Lo siento! I…ahh…”

I don’t do well in Spanish when flustered. I stood before Betto, the Mexican coordinator of the MRC, and the shuttle driver, unable to find the explanation I needed.

“She doesn’t speak Spanish?” the driver said to Betto.

“Not really.”

“Oh.”

“I can understand what you’re saying right now,” I chimed in.

“IT’S. O. K. WE. NO. LATE.”

Betto in the Migrant Resource Center

“Thanks,” I sighed, realizing I’d set the precedent for how we would communicate for the entire ride to…wait, where were we going?

Get In

I was apparently taking a bus to Mexico City (more commonly called “D.F.”), the same bus that offers free trips home to migrants. But I was hopping in a shuttle, driven by Martín, toward the city of Nogales, in the opposite direction.

I buckled my seatbelt in a van full of migrants I had met over the previous few days in the center and asked Martín why we were heading to Nogales.

“BUS. NOGALES-TO-CATCH-BUS. YOU. GO. D. F.” he yelled in a broken Spanish with accompanying hand gestures, ending with a big thumbs up and the word, “UNDERSTAND?”

“Sí, Martín. Couldn’t be clearer.”

We drove somewhat manically through northern Sonora while Martín continued to yell two word snippets of Spanish at me and sacrifice holding the wheel for signing. Eventually, we pulled into a busy bus hub, met by some woman looking for “the volunteer.”

“Oh. That’s me!”

She put me on a bus. I squished my backpack in the overhead area and sat in the open seat up front with the short leg space.

The streets of the border town of Agua Prieta, Sonora

“Is this bus going to D.F.?” I asked the driver.

“It’s going everywhere,” he said tiredly. “You should change seats. There’s not a lot of leg room here. You’re tall.”

“I’m fine,” I assured him, taking note of my four foot ten seat buddy.

Where Are We?

Everywhere? Okay. I decided not to worry about it and focused instead on finding a comfortable place for my knees.

The first night was a blur of impromptu maintenance stops, military checkpoints, trips to public restrooms for varying rates of three to five pesos and scratched CDs of Mexican classic ballads. Sometime in the morning, we rolled into a bus station and disembarked for a “one hour break.”

By the end of three hours, most of us were congregated around the bus, watching the driver run back and forth from the bus to a garage carrying various parts and tools. I plopped down on the cement underneath a shade tree under the curious watch of my fellow travelers, all wondering how this American girl ended up on this bus.

The streets of crowded, bustling Mexico City

Eventually, two men who recognized me from the Migrant Center in Agua Prieta joined me under the tree. We chatted about the journey and about my intentions to visit Mexico City alone.

“Laurita,” said my new friend Pedro, taking on a very serious tone, “please be careful. There was this family that went on vacation. Somebody kidnapped them and sold their organs.”

“That’s a horrible story,” I said.

“I know. It was in Brazil. It was a movie, but I think this happens often.”

“Pedro,” said Angel, cutting the lesson short, “you should just tell her to be careful.”

After another hour of waiting, two trucks full of Mexican authorities dressed in black, faces covered, carrying rifles stopped on the street in front of us, breaking our stupor of the heat and exhaustion. They jumped out of the vehicles without making a sound and began swarming the house behind us.

“Um…should…wha??” I stuttered, Spanish failing me once again.

“Yes. Things are very bad here in the state of Sinaloa,” Angel told me, watching the scene calmly.

Of course. Sinaloa. Also not quite on the path to Mexico City. After six hours of waiting and a SWAT raid, we re-boarded and hit the road…not sure which road, but at least we were moving!

First views of D.F.

Ya Llegamos! (We’ve Arrived!)

The next night passed similar to the first, as well as the next day—except with no bathroom or food stops to make up lost time. At about four in the afternoon, we pulled off the highway.

“D.F.?” the driver yelled across the bus.

Six of us collected our things and stepped out onto the pavement, surrounded by open fields and produce stands…not exactly what I expected to find in one of the largest cities in the world. I looked at Angel, realized he seemed to be fine with whatever was going on, and relaxed.

We waited while the driver flagged down some shuttle, explained that we weren’t paying and told us to get in.

As we rode along, the open fields changed to store fronts and crowds. At every stop a different vendor hopped on with peanuts, chewing gum, popsicles, batteries, mangos or sodas—a welcomed surprise after a day without stopping for food!

An hour later, we pulled into a hectic parking lot full of local shuttles and haggling vendors. I waited for the now familiar command of “get out.”

The Metropolitan Cathedral of Mexico City, right next to the Zócalo city square

Two days, three vehicles and countless military checkpoints later, I’d arrived—and now in the company of a new travel companion.

“Angel,” I asked, newly energized by the city, “which way to downtown?”

He looked at me with confusion, then laughed.

“It’s very far. We’ll have to take the metro!”

Naturally. I cinched up my backpack and headed underground for part 16 of the epic pilgrimage to D.F.

I’m sure there would have been easier options for embarking on this journey south—but hey,  who needs a four hour flight when you can spend two days ping-ponging around the countryside of Mexico with less than optimal legroom, but the best of company?

In case you every find yourself in the same situation, remember to pack snacks and carry plenty of spare pesos for the bathroom.

I have a confession: I’m not a fact-based person. Especially when it comes to numbers. I often blunder statistics or phrases in conversations and have been known to tell people the U.S. soccer star, Landon Donovan, is 5’2”. In fact, I only get statistics right 42% of the time…

That’s why I love stories. Personal stories can’t be wrong. I can’t misspeak my own experiences and perceptions. No one can argue my perspective of what I have gone through or how it has impacted my life. Stories may be ignored, but the personal experience can’t be mistaken. Stories are real. They are raw and often life-changing.

This is what drew me to work here at World Next Door – the opportunity to be a part of compelling, honest and, let’s face it, sometimes hard-to-read story telling.

Working in social media over the last few years taught me the incredible impact of “sharing” stories. Information spreads quickly – from your friend, to a friend of a friend, to a stranger. All it takes is one voice – my voice, your voice, our voice – to bring attention to the things that stir our hearts.

WND shares first-hand stories from our travels and hopes you then continue to spread the word and share them as well. So in the spirit of sharing, we found a few stories from around the web we thought you’d enjoy.

Take a few minutes to check out these videos – one is a pretty powerful trailer for a documentary set to release this fall, and the other provides comedic truth to things we strive to bring light to in all our stories – opportunity and hope for those all over the world.

Do you have other videos or articles worth sharing? Tweet them to us (@WorldNextDoor) or post them on our Facebook page!

Some days, being here on the border makes me tired. Every walk I take past the wall, every Border Patrol agent that drives by, every little white cross I see and every migrant I meet reminds me that we are in the middle of a seriously complicated situation. It’s huge.

What can I do? Families are being separated. People are dying trying to come to my country. Some of our immigrant brothers and sisters in the U.S. feel persecuted and vulnerable.

I don’t think God likes this. I don’t like this, and I’m not the one who creates each of these people with love and intention and then watches them walk into the desert carrying pictures of their children and a gallon of water in search of a better life.

Café Justo decaf coffee. Each bag is labeled with the name of the grower who provided the coffee.

Something better is possible.

People like the volunteers at the Migrant Resource Center are charged with the crucial role of caring for migrants in their moment of need, and we as U.S. citizens have a role in making informed decisions about legislation that dramatically affects the lives of our migrant and immigrant neighbors.

But as far as what’s going on in Mexico itself to make people migrate…that’s Mexico’s problem, right?

Displaced

Fourteen years ago, Daniel Cifuentes left his home community of Salvador Urbina, Chiapas (the southernmost state of Mexico) where he had worked as a coffee farmer.

“We were desperate…the price for one sack of coffee fell from 1500 pesos to 350 pesos,” Daniel told me, shaking his head.

Pedro, coffee roaster in Agua Prieta.

The price paid to coffee growers depends somewhat on the world market, but also on the intermediaries who purchase the raw product from the growers. Daniel and his community were being extorted by these intermediaries and couldn’t earn a living with the meager price offered to them for their work.

“I knew I was leaving my land, but I also knew there was work in the factories on the border.”

Daniel moved to Agua Prieta and worked factory jobs, forced away from his home by economic circumstances like so many others. But after a few years working on the border, Daniel met the people of Frontera de Cristo.

Hitting the Ground Running

This changed everything.

Frontera de Cristo recognized the need for economic justice in Daniel’s community, and they worked with Daniel and other growers to develop a coffee cooperative where the earnings from growing, processing and selling the coffee would return to the cooperative associates instead of to middle men or large corporations. Instead of 350 pesos per sack, growers could expect to receive 1300 pesos per sack.

Coffee is transported in these sacks to the border processing location.

Using a loan from Frontera de Cristo to buy roasting equipment, Just Coffee (Café Justo) hit the road running.

“Our plan was very small,” Daniel told me. “It was to sell 10 sacks of coffee in the first year. But at the end of the first year, we realized that we didn’t sell 10 sacks of coffee, but more than 400 sacks. Many people—and many churches—responded to our invitation.”

An Honorable Invitation

Our invitation. I looked around the Café Justo building, taking in the smell of the roasting coffee and the peaceful and diligent manner in which everyone was working, thinking about just how honorable an invitation it was.

Just Coffee customers pay for people like Daniel to live comfortably and even carry health insurance. They provide salaries for families like Elvia and Marcelo, who invited me over for lunch to show me the new room they’re building onto their home.

And this is just the handful of people working here in Agua Prieta where the processing, packaging and exporting happens. On the U.S. side of the border, coffee is sent to volunteers who sell it in their churches and communities, generating as much business as possible for the coffee farmers who are living and raising families in their home communities.

Something Better

This is a small part of that something better I mentioned.

Marcelo packaging coffee in Agua Prieta.

People here in the United States are making the choice to invest in coffee farmers – to support them by being conscientious consumers in hopes that these growers won’t be forced away from their homes to find better-paying work or compelled to make the dangerous desert passage here on the border.

Café Justo gives me hope.

As I write this, I’m enjoying my morning coffee, and I’m not just enjoying it because it tastes good. I’m enjoying it because I know my coffee is part of the reason dozens of families in Mexico are waking up in their home communities, with their families, instead of journeying north.

That’s good coffee. Or to be more accurate, that’s Just Coffee—social justice in a cup.

Most of the migrants I meet here in Agua Prieta have experience crossing—or trying to cross—the U.S.-Mexican border on foot. When I ask them about the crossing, they mostly report the same thing: Es un viaje muy feo.

It’s a very ugly journey.

Many people head out with insufficient water. Others prepare for a journey of two days, but end up lost for over a week.

The U.S.-Mexican border has claimed thousands of lives of migrants trying to reach the United States. They often die from “exposure,” which translates to dehydration and heat stroke. Many of them put their lives in the hands of guides, often referred to as “polleros”, or “chicken herders”, who charge a fee to take groups of migrants across the desert.

Look at these images to understand a little more about the passage from Mexico to the United States and to see how people from Frontera de Cristo honor the memory of those who have passed.

We’re the same age, Olga and I—24 years old. It’s hard to think of her that way after listening to her story. It’s hard to look a young woman in the eye who has just risked everything to gain opportunities I was born with.

Olga lives with her two young children and husband in Tijuana. Her husband drove a taxi for many years, but he was recently in an auto accident and is responsible for paying damages to the other driver.

With her husband out of work, and with meager employment options in Tijuana, Olga made the difficult decision to cross into the U.S. to earn money and pay off the debt. She’d heard it was dangerous, but she was determined to help her struggling family.

“Will you try again?” I asked her across the aisle of the Migrant Resource Center. She looked at me with a burdened gaze.

“We walked for 11 days,” she said. “We broke open cactuses to find water.”

She showed me the marks on her arms from the spines. Olga folded her arms, looked back at her feet and chewed her bottom lip, reflecting on an experience that happened right here in this desert, but a world away from me.

Many migrants take the time to rest and recuperate from their journey in the Migrant Resource Center

I may have grown up in this desert, but I’ve never been stranded, trying to survive on cacti alone.

“No. I’m going home. I thought this would work, but,” her voice broke, and she paused in silence to regain her composure, “but no. I’ll go home. We’ll figure something out.”

Olga seemed to be trying to convince herself with these words. The reason she left Tijuana in the first place—left her home, left her daughters—was because she felt she had no viable options for earning the money she owed, and the opportunity to fix all of this waited just a few miles away on the other side of the border.

Would I have done differently? The U.S. wage rate for “unskilled” labor (like a factory worker) is on average 8 to 15 times higher than that offered in Mexico. Olga knew the risks before she ventured out into the desert, and it took a near death experience to convince her she should pursue a different path—at least for now.

I also thought about more than 10 million people living in the U.S. without documentation, many of which walked across the desert like Olga because of economic hardship.

What’s wrong with this picture? Undocumented immigrants fill millions of jobs across the U.S., quite an incentive for someone in Olga’s position. But the most viable option for reaching these jobs is by making a deadly passage through the desert, and history has shown that as long as the jobs exist, people will seek them.

Like I said, Olga knew the risks. I know she’s not alone, and I’m saddened to know more are following that same path as I write this because the opportunity exists, and they have no legal option to reach it.

For many who come, their priority is connecting with a loved one on the Migrant Center’s phone

I’ve met far too many Olgas, and I know of far too many men, women and children who perish on U.S. soil while doing nothing more than seeking a better life.

“I’m happy you’re safe, Olga,” I said, wishing there was something more reassuring to offer her at such a moment. She raised her chin and gave me a tired smile.

“You know what I did first when I came here today?” she asked me, looking around the center. “I called my mom. She just cried. After so long, she thought I was dead. She just cried.”

Olga’s smile spread slowly at this newer memory, pushing some of the pain and exhaustion from her mind. I looked back at the line of people waiting to make phone calls, grateful that in a moment of so much frustration, hopelessness and confusion they at least would feel the relief of unburdening their loved ones of worry.

Rafael limped into the Migrant Resource Center for the second time that day with the same weathered smile on his face. The first visit happened in the morning, moments after he was returned from the U.S.

Rafael tried to walk across the desert into New Mexico but was caught, detained and dropped off in this Arizona border town to find his way back “home.”

“Good evening! Can I make a call?” he asked in Spanish as he hobbled to the back of the center.

Phil, the U.S. Migrant Resource Center coordinator, invited Rafael to sit in the center’s well-utilized seat by the phone. Josias, another volunteer, brought a plate of hot burritos and pan dulce for him to eat.

“Muchas gracias!” he told us enthusiastically, turning to offer some of his food to his companion seated a few yards away. “Thank you. Such good people here. Something else- do you have anything for blisters? My feet are really sore.”

I leaned over Rafael as he removed his shoes, trying to mask any involuntary reaction from the smell. But as he peeled back his socks, I let a small gasp slip out. His toes were raw and coated with blisters. Now I understood the limp.

“Sorry for the smell,” he offered with the same good-natured smile. “We were walking, lost, for eight days…”

Foot Duty

Eight days in the desert.

Rafael is lucky to be alive, blisters and all. My heart went out to him. I looked at Phil, busy making the phone call, and Josias, getting coffee, and realized with some reluctance—I guess I’m on foot duty. Fantastic.

Many of the Migrant Resource Center visitors sit here and tell their loved ones they’re safe.

I filled a basin with warm water and soap and fetched some medical supplies from the stash.

“I don’t think we have any clean socks,” I told him regretfully.

“No, no—don’t worry! But I think I’m going to throw these away,” he said, eyeing his old socks and laughing. “Better to go without socks, no? I’ll throw these away outside.”

Josias graciously took the nasty old socks from Rafael and disposed of them. I kneeled down on the floor with my basin next to Rafael’s feet and asked him to place them in the water. For the first time since entering the center, Rafael’s smile broke.

He winced and sucked air through his teeth as he lowered his raw, sore feet into the basin. The volunteers all winced along with him as we encouraged him through the process. The pain was worse than he let on.

The Story

I gently washed Rafael’s feet as we chatted to take his mind off of the burning. I asked about his three children, and he tried hard to pronounce words like “blister” in English. Rafael told me he’d been in the U.S. for ten years already, living and working in New Mexico with his family, but English was still very difficult.

Rafael was born in the Mexican border state of Chihuahua. As a teenager, he moved to a border city to find work. He worked different jobs and became very involved with his church.

Some antiseptic for Rafael’s feet.

“I did a lot of volunteer work with young people. It’s important to help others like the people do here in this place,” he told me.

Eventually, Rafael met his wife and her two sons at church. They dated for only two months then got married.

“Those are my two oldest children…so, they’re not really my children, but they are. Understand?”

Like any parent would, Rafael grew disturbed with the escalating amount of violence in his city. He wanted to move his children away, but he recognized there weren’t many employment opportunities in Mexico. Moreover, anything available paid a fraction of the minimum wage rate offered just on the other side of the border.

What’s a father to do? For Rafael, the decision wasn’t easy, but it was understandable: he decided to move his family to the United States. And they came illegally—a popular choice considering securing a work visa as a Mexican citizen can take decades.

What A Gift

After ten years of living in the U.S., Rafael decided to visit his parents back in Mexico, because they’re aging and their health failing. Unfortunately, this means Rafael is now stuck back on the Mexican side of the border and needs to cross the desert on foot to reunite with his family.

Rafael and his travel companion helping me clean up the center one night. They were very insistent on contributing.

I began to dry Rafael’s feet and treat his blisters as he bragged about all of his children—the one who wants to join the army, the one who wants to be a Marine and the youngest who wants to be a doctor.

“I just want my children to have good lives,” he told me, “not lives full of riches—just good lives. That’s all.”

By this point in Rafael’s story, my posture had changed quite a bit. With every minute we spent together, with every detail of his story he revealed, I was increasingly humbled.

Here sat a man of such good intent and so much unconditional love for his family, whose body had been abused by the desert, and whose dignity had been further abused by the process of being arrested and detained.

And I got to wash his feet. I had the privilege of wrapping his wounds and listening to his unassuming wisdom. What a gift.

Humanity

My brief time at the Migrant Resource Center is nothing compared to the dozens of volunteers from the U.S. and Mexico who keep this place running every day. They welcome hundreds of men and women, many with stories similar to Rafael’s.

Many of the visitors here have walked days through the desert.

Volunteers welcome migrants with compassion and respect, no matter the situation. People arrive here caught in the middle of much larger issues than what the Migrant Center and its volunteers can address alone, but at least in this place, they can provide some relief to the travelers.

To be candid, Rafael will probably head back out into the desert soon, bad feet and all (tears are springing to my eyes at the thought!). Like I said, much larger issues are at work.

But at least here, in the Migrant Resource Center, he was treated with humanity amidst a journey that wears down the spirits of so many weary migrants.