Immigrants, the Innocent, and Other Holy Things : Jun 22, 2018
I was around 13 years old. I was going to be in my first Quinceanera. My mother couldn’t afford an expensive dress, so my grandmother sent us to a woman she knew. As we pulled up to this home, I remember my wheels started turning. I had never been to such a small house before. As we walked in we met a kind and pleasant woman and her four children. This woman was Luz. She couldn’t speak english and we couldn’t speak spanish, so her daughter helped us communicate. Luz was a talented seamstress. Her hands were gifted. As we went inside I was observing a lot. I was too young to totally understand what I was feeling, but old enough to know my compassion was triggered. Luz lived in a 1 room house with her 4 babies. No, I didn’t say 1 bedroom. I said 1 room. Her one room had 3 beds, a portable closet, a couple dressers, and one corner of the room was her work station. She had an organized sewing area. Off to the side was a very small room with a toilet and a shower, along with a very small kitchen. What I didn’t know at that time, was that Luz was an illegal immigrant. She sewed her fingers off to provide for her children and was always happy, willing, and prompt to do any work given to her. After many years of hard work and struggle, Luz landed a big break. Day after day she’d be up and ready at 7 am with all 4 kids in tow. She would go door to door, business to business. She would walk in and say, “I can work, I can sew! Will you let me sew for you?” Many years she was sent away by irritated people who simply had no time to be bothered with her. Until one day a well known local business owners wife had mercy on her. She hired her for a small job and was so impressed, she hired her to do their biggest jobs. I can’t think of anyone more qualified or deserving.
This was the beginning of my grandmother’s work at United Methodist Urban Ministries and Catholic Charities. She worked as an advocate to help illegal immigrants receive their citizenship until she retired. During her time as an advocate she helped countless people and families in a variety of situations. She went to court with them, to the doctor, helped fill out paperwork and so on.
My grandmother has always been hardworking. She will be 80 this December. To this day, she hasn’t sat down. Everyone who knows her, knows she’s a doer. She gets things done. But it wasn’t until I sat down with her recently that I understood just how much she did. I spent hours listening to stories from her years as an advocate. I asked her how she was able to do it. Just hearing about the intense hardship and bitter struggle so many of them suffered was more than I could handle. She said, “God helped me.” She shed tears as she had to think about that question. She remembered so many times she had to be stern and not let them fall into hopelessness. She would pray with them, lift up their chin and firmly say, “You have to keep going. You don’t have to be afraid. God is with you. Now get up, your family needs you.” So often, that was all they needed, and enough to keep them going.
At one point in her career she was given the top floor of an office to use in any way she thought best. So she started classes. All kinds of them. Any class that was required to gain citizenship she began teaching in this building. She taught English as a Second Language, Parenting Class, Finance, and more. At one point so many classes were running, her higher-ups came to her concerned, telling her she needed to stop doing so much. She shared with me the story of a young mother, Maria. Maria had been here for a few years and was raising children. In the ESL class, my grandmother taught all of the people to say, “Please speak slowly.” That way, when they had doctor appointments or any kind of interaction they had a better chance at understanding and communicating. Maria came to class one day, so overcome with emotion and eager to tell her story. She went to the doctor that day and did exactly what grandma taught them. She looked the receptionist in the eye and said, “Please speak slowly.” The receptionist was kind and said, “Of course.” It was the first time in years she was able to communicate and could understand the whole conversation. That one simple tool was the biggest game changer of her life. Maria told my grandma through tears, “When I left, I wanted to beat my chest. I felt like I could do anything!” It was such a simple but huge victory for her. She left beaming and full of hope.
I don’t know what you think about when you hear the word immigrant. I don’t know what you visualize in your minds eye. But when I think of them, I see the faces of Luz and Maria, these friends turned family. I don’t see criminals. I see people who desperately need a hand, people who need hope and love, and people who have so much to offer our communities and world. I asked my grandmother if she had to place a percentage on the number of illegal immigrants who were granted legal status during the time she worked with them, what would it be? She said between 40-50%. She said they always showed up early, came to every appointment, and worked hard daily at becoming legal. Finally I asked how many were genuine, hardworking people willing to do anything for a better life? What would that percentage be? She said over 90%. Wow. I asked, “Well, what about the bad people? The criminals? How many are just looking for a hand out?” She said only 5%. She said 90% were hardworking, 5% couldn’t work because of medical conditions or disabilities, and only 5% she had trouble with. My hope in writing this is to give you a new lens to look through you may not otherwise have.
Every night before my husband comes to bed, he walks through the house and checks on all the kids. He makes sure every door is locked and things are where they should be. He goes through a process, if you will, to ensure our safety. Just like my husbands desire to protect us, every administration carries that responsibility for the American people. I can understand that. I can respect that. I honor that. But what I can’t do is come into agreement with the separation of families as a just punishment for crossing the border. Especially for the hurting and vulnerable. These precious people are oppressed and have no answers. They don’t need more pain or condemnation. They need an out stretched hand.
I’ve never been hungry or in the streets. I’ve never not been able to feed my children. I’ve never had to make a decision between life or death. But when I engage my imagination and put myself in those scenarios, the mother’s heart inside me would stop at nothing to put food in my child’s mouth or to provide for them. I’ve prayed and cried. Cried and prayed. I’m crying out for wisdom. I know we need order. But this isn’t the way.
Pro-Lifers, this is our time to shine. We fight for the unborn but won’t for brown babies in cages because we can’t detour from our political bandwagons. Politics are one thing. Humanity is another. This is a humanitarian crisis happening before our eyes. You don’t have to hate Trump, be a Democrat, Liberal, or a Leftist to hate this. I am none of that. Only human. In the gospels, Jesus walked around day after day offending the mind to reach the heart. It happened to every religious leader of his day. If you can look at the images of these children and hear the cry of the afflicted and have a pre-planned black and white answer in your back pocket, I beg you to pause and re-examine. There is irreversible damage being done as we speak. It’s not okay. The fact that children are separated from their parents in the US is NOT a valid argument. These are loving parents, fighting to give their children better. We can’t lump them in the same category as drug users, manipulators, and real criminals. It’s in our spiritual DNA to respond to these cries with attention, love and mercy. I don’t recognize who we are right now. It hurts.
Heidi Baker said, “It is a privilege beyond price to see the joy and affection of the Holy Spirit poured out like a waterfall on people who have known so much severe hardship, disappointment and bitter loneliness in their lives. Throughout the world we see ravenous desire for God among the poor and lowly. Jesus knows their suffering, and He will make it up to them. He will be their God, and they will be His people. He will use them to shame the wise and make the world jealous of their wealth toward Him.”
They are the poor and lowly. They are the least of these. They are the widows and orphans in trouble. They are the people we profess to love and pray salvation for. I ask you, how will we ever love our enemies if we can’t even love our neighbors?
Jen Hatmaker said, “While immigration remains complicated, this new “zero tolerance” policy is cruel, inhumane, and wicked.”
What do I think? I think it’s easy to see the speck in someone else’s eye, and hard to see the log in our own. We can do better. And it matters so much.
I will leave you with one last story. When my grandma was with Catholic Charities, there was an office wing where all the nuns worked. It was no secret that the sisters had money that could be used for various programs. But it was up to them how it would be used. Grandma always wanted to ask but didn’t know them personally and was unsure of how to do it. As she went deeper in the trenches and seen the growing need, she knew she needed to ask for a portion. So one day, she courageously walked into their office prepared to request and defend what she was asking for. The nun at the front desk routinely asked, “What’s your name?” When she responded, “Rosa Cruz,” the sisters enthusiastically and passionately said, “Rosa! YOU’RE Rosa Cruz?!! Thank you, thank you Rosa for what your doing for the people! We hear so much about you! Thank you for your love. Thank you for what your doing!” My grandma was embarrassed and shocked. Her name had gone before her and the way the immigrants loved her was known. The sisters granted her $700 a week. It might not sound like much, but this was a huge blessing. Everything counted. She was so humbled that day. She can’t even speak of that experience without crying. Now is the time to be the Rosa Cruz in someone’s life. I hope we will all take that plunge.
Want to help? Like, now?
Click the post below and scroll down for four easy steps to contact your senators and reps. Script included so you’ll know exactly what to write or say on the phone. Resistbot takes this down to a four minute process. Let’s flood our senators’ inboxes and voicemails.
https://momastery.com/blog/2018/05/30/lawmakers/
Also, Baby2Baby is taking donations to get essentials to the children that need them. You can find them on Facebook or online at baby2baby.org.
Lastly, there is a protest being hosted by Lydia L. on Saturday, June 30th, meeting at City Hall in Wichita, KS at noon. Please consider joining.
I want to dedicate this article to my grandmother, Rosa Cruz, a faithful servant. Thank you for being the hands and feet of Jesus and teaching us well. I love you.
Author: Stephanie Jackson
This was the beginning of my grandmother’s work at United Methodist Urban Ministries and Catholic Charities. She worked as an advocate to help illegal immigrants receive their citizenship until she retired. During her time as an advocate she helped countless people and families in a variety of situations. She went to court with them, to the doctor, helped fill out paperwork and so on.
My grandmother has always been hardworking. She will be 80 this December. To this day, she hasn’t sat down. Everyone who knows her, knows she’s a doer. She gets things done. But it wasn’t until I sat down with her recently that I understood just how much she did. I spent hours listening to stories from her years as an advocate. I asked her how she was able to do it. Just hearing about the intense hardship and bitter struggle so many of them suffered was more than I could handle. She said, “God helped me.” She shed tears as she had to think about that question. She remembered so many times she had to be stern and not let them fall into hopelessness. She would pray with them, lift up their chin and firmly say, “You have to keep going. You don’t have to be afraid. God is with you. Now get up, your family needs you.” So often, that was all they needed, and enough to keep them going.
At one point in her career she was given the top floor of an office to use in any way she thought best. So she started classes. All kinds of them. Any class that was required to gain citizenship she began teaching in this building. She taught English as a Second Language, Parenting Class, Finance, and more. At one point so many classes were running, her higher-ups came to her concerned, telling her she needed to stop doing so much. She shared with me the story of a young mother, Maria. Maria had been here for a few years and was raising children. In the ESL class, my grandmother taught all of the people to say, “Please speak slowly.” That way, when they had doctor appointments or any kind of interaction they had a better chance at understanding and communicating. Maria came to class one day, so overcome with emotion and eager to tell her story. She went to the doctor that day and did exactly what grandma taught them. She looked the receptionist in the eye and said, “Please speak slowly.” The receptionist was kind and said, “Of course.” It was the first time in years she was able to communicate and could understand the whole conversation. That one simple tool was the biggest game changer of her life. Maria told my grandma through tears, “When I left, I wanted to beat my chest. I felt like I could do anything!” It was such a simple but huge victory for her. She left beaming and full of hope.
I don’t know what you think about when you hear the word immigrant. I don’t know what you visualize in your minds eye. But when I think of them, I see the faces of Luz and Maria, these friends turned family. I don’t see criminals. I see people who desperately need a hand, people who need hope and love, and people who have so much to offer our communities and world. I asked my grandmother if she had to place a percentage on the number of illegal immigrants who were granted legal status during the time she worked with them, what would it be? She said between 40-50%. She said they always showed up early, came to every appointment, and worked hard daily at becoming legal. Finally I asked how many were genuine, hardworking people willing to do anything for a better life? What would that percentage be? She said over 90%. Wow. I asked, “Well, what about the bad people? The criminals? How many are just looking for a hand out?” She said only 5%. She said 90% were hardworking, 5% couldn’t work because of medical conditions or disabilities, and only 5% she had trouble with. My hope in writing this is to give you a new lens to look through you may not otherwise have.
Every night before my husband comes to bed, he walks through the house and checks on all the kids. He makes sure every door is locked and things are where they should be. He goes through a process, if you will, to ensure our safety. Just like my husbands desire to protect us, every administration carries that responsibility for the American people. I can understand that. I can respect that. I honor that. But what I can’t do is come into agreement with the separation of families as a just punishment for crossing the border. Especially for the hurting and vulnerable. These precious people are oppressed and have no answers. They don’t need more pain or condemnation. They need an out stretched hand.
I’ve never been hungry or in the streets. I’ve never not been able to feed my children. I’ve never had to make a decision between life or death. But when I engage my imagination and put myself in those scenarios, the mother’s heart inside me would stop at nothing to put food in my child’s mouth or to provide for them. I’ve prayed and cried. Cried and prayed. I’m crying out for wisdom. I know we need order. But this isn’t the way.
Pro-Lifers, this is our time to shine. We fight for the unborn but won’t for brown babies in cages because we can’t detour from our political bandwagons. Politics are one thing. Humanity is another. This is a humanitarian crisis happening before our eyes. You don’t have to hate Trump, be a Democrat, Liberal, or a Leftist to hate this. I am none of that. Only human. In the gospels, Jesus walked around day after day offending the mind to reach the heart. It happened to every religious leader of his day. If you can look at the images of these children and hear the cry of the afflicted and have a pre-planned black and white answer in your back pocket, I beg you to pause and re-examine. There is irreversible damage being done as we speak. It’s not okay. The fact that children are separated from their parents in the US is NOT a valid argument. These are loving parents, fighting to give their children better. We can’t lump them in the same category as drug users, manipulators, and real criminals. It’s in our spiritual DNA to respond to these cries with attention, love and mercy. I don’t recognize who we are right now. It hurts.
Heidi Baker said, “It is a privilege beyond price to see the joy and affection of the Holy Spirit poured out like a waterfall on people who have known so much severe hardship, disappointment and bitter loneliness in their lives. Throughout the world we see ravenous desire for God among the poor and lowly. Jesus knows their suffering, and He will make it up to them. He will be their God, and they will be His people. He will use them to shame the wise and make the world jealous of their wealth toward Him.”
They are the poor and lowly. They are the least of these. They are the widows and orphans in trouble. They are the people we profess to love and pray salvation for. I ask you, how will we ever love our enemies if we can’t even love our neighbors?
Jen Hatmaker said, “While immigration remains complicated, this new “zero tolerance” policy is cruel, inhumane, and wicked.”
What do I think? I think it’s easy to see the speck in someone else’s eye, and hard to see the log in our own. We can do better. And it matters so much.
I will leave you with one last story. When my grandma was with Catholic Charities, there was an office wing where all the nuns worked. It was no secret that the sisters had money that could be used for various programs. But it was up to them how it would be used. Grandma always wanted to ask but didn’t know them personally and was unsure of how to do it. As she went deeper in the trenches and seen the growing need, she knew she needed to ask for a portion. So one day, she courageously walked into their office prepared to request and defend what she was asking for. The nun at the front desk routinely asked, “What’s your name?” When she responded, “Rosa Cruz,” the sisters enthusiastically and passionately said, “Rosa! YOU’RE Rosa Cruz?!! Thank you, thank you Rosa for what your doing for the people! We hear so much about you! Thank you for your love. Thank you for what your doing!” My grandma was embarrassed and shocked. Her name had gone before her and the way the immigrants loved her was known. The sisters granted her $700 a week. It might not sound like much, but this was a huge blessing. Everything counted. She was so humbled that day. She can’t even speak of that experience without crying. Now is the time to be the Rosa Cruz in someone’s life. I hope we will all take that plunge.
Want to help? Like, now?
Click the post below and scroll down for four easy steps to contact your senators and reps. Script included so you’ll know exactly what to write or say on the phone. Resistbot takes this down to a four minute process. Let’s flood our senators’ inboxes and voicemails.
https://momastery.com/blog/2018/05/30/lawmakers/
Also, Baby2Baby is taking donations to get essentials to the children that need them. You can find them on Facebook or online at baby2baby.org.
Lastly, there is a protest being hosted by Lydia L. on Saturday, June 30th, meeting at City Hall in Wichita, KS at noon. Please consider joining.
I want to dedicate this article to my grandmother, Rosa Cruz, a faithful servant. Thank you for being the hands and feet of Jesus and teaching us well. I love you.
Author: Stephanie Jackson
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