I spend a lot of time thinking about coffee, more than I’d like to admit. It’s a daily plan I make in my head. Where am I going to get today’s cup? Espresso or drip? Iced or hot? Cream or sugar? At home or school or work or a coffee shop?

Despite the plethora of choices I have, I often take this ritual and its significance for granted. Coffee, much like God’s grace, sustains us throughout our day. It provides energy and productivity, helping us reach our goals. People gather around pots of coffee to chat, taking part in a daily communal ritual. Making someone a cup is a powerful act of service.

For the disinherited, coffee is the balm for sleepless nights. I came to realize this one early morning, waiting for a train home to Maryland in Philadelphia's 30th Street Station. A man with a hobble, no older than 40, came up to me and asked me if I could spare some food or money. I elected to bring him over to the station’s Dunkin to have him pick out whatever he wanted, and I would pay.

At first, he only ordered a small hot cup of black coffee. When I insisted he could get something substantial to eat, he got two doughnuts. I could tell he felt embarrassed and chose what he believed was more important than calories in that moment: energy. After we had sat down and made small talk, he began to nod off between sentences due to lack of sleep. He told me that during these winter months he was lucky to get 2 to 3 hours of sleep per night, usually in 30-minute intervals.

Many people are wary of people experiencing homelessness for many reasons. From thoughts about danger or violence to stigma around drug use, many people see them as “others”.

How would this change if everyone saw the unhoused as people?

During my undergrad, I did service in Kensington, a neighborhood known for people living in the streets due to non opioid tranquilizers like xylazine and synthetic opioids like fentanyl. My work there is why I carry Narcan with me.

Consider Our Lady of Sorrows, who is typically pierced with 7 swords, one for each of the major pains Mary feels in the Gospels.

Yes, Mary weeps when humanity uses drugs. But instead of calling for total abstinence, I belive Mary would meet people where they were at, emphasizing our human condition.

What if our focus of service was human-oriented? How could we come together around a pot of coffee in order to share in something that eases our soul?

I have studied for 18 years of my life. In that time, I have measured, counted, analyzed, and manipulated the physical world. I have delt with the machinations of our minds, the inner workings of our bodies work, and how we ought to relate to each other as people. I have been in honors and advanced placement and accelerated classes. Yet nothing is as hard as theology school.

Some days are easy. A reading about the historical or the societal. But most days I’m confronted with the reality that the Being I’m studying is infinite. God is so many things. Here is a non exhaustive list of things I've heard God be this past week:

Fatherly, Motherly, Manly, Womanish, Black, Latinx, Powerful, Gentile, All Knowing, All Loving, All Powerful, Forgiving, Merciful, Retributive, Just, Large, Small, Everywhere, Human, Divine, Loving, Friendly, Liberator

The problem I’m running into is that God is not fitting into the boxes I'm trying to put God in, and that’s really difficult for me. And its not even like my assignments are “fit God into 7 boxes before 11:59pm”. Its me in my prayer and in my thoughts which I try and contain God.

I find myself echoing Rahner in my prayer “Can you be real and near to me, when I must confess You as infinite?”. And I know the answer and believe the answer to be yes, but why don’t I always feel it? I believe the answer is not an academic one but a personal one….

Where is God right now in MY life?

Funny enough, my favorite song off of Noah Kahan’s new album is titled “Standing Still”. Although the song is upbeat, rock-ish, and chock-full of local Boston references, it talks about a partner’s plane taking off despite their desire to be closer to the person they love. One of my favorite themes from the song is the idea that every time we start over, we are left feeling alone.

Oh, I can't keep on starting over
Sleepin' in a bed half empty, daydreamin'
All love must leave, oh, but search for it I will
Honey, tell me, are you good at staying still?
Are you good at staying still?

Despite the melancholy, the line “All love must leave, oh, but search for it I will” really appeals to the romantic in me. Despite the changes, heartbreaks, and new places, we are meant to keep on searching for love.

This idea has me reflecting on the theology of Imago Dei, or the Image of God. We were created in God’s image and likeness, not for arbitrary reasons, but in order to find relationship with God, who is love. This theology has real-world implications, as we are called in John 13:34-35 to love one another as Jesus has loved us.

My goal this upcoming school year is to not stay still; to explore and fall in love with God even deeper.

“Thanks, I watched the video you sent about playing King’s Row correctly… I do want to do a 1:1 soon. Will you be back (online) tonight?”

In Malcom Gladwell’s book The Outliers, he examines what it takes for someone to be successful in their field. Whether it was timing, opportunity, innate ability, or practice, there are thousands of factors. Gladwell (for better or worse) tries to distill them into a few key takeaways we can use to succeed ourselves. Where I think he holds the most water is through his 10,000 rule. Gladwell goes on to explain that anyone who wishes to be an “expert” in their field must spend at least 10,000 hours of intentional practice to have a competitive chance among their peers.

I have over 12,000 hours in a video game called Overwatch. To any reader outside the gaming community, Blizzard.com describes Overwatch as “a free-to-play, team-based action game set in the optimistic future, where every match is the ultimate 5v5 battlefield brawl. Play as a time-jumping freedom fighter, a beat-dropping battlefield DJ [My personal favorite hero], or one of over 30 other unique heroes as you battle it out around the globe.” It’s a bit of an abstract explanation, but I can’t blame them- video games are hard to describe.

For me, Overwatch is so much more than a game- it’s a community. And yes, that sounds cheesy and maybe even untrue to those who have queued into ranked play before. But Overwatch (and games in general) have had a huge impact on my life.

When the world is too much to handle- assignments, expectations, and most scary, things out of my control- video games provide a second space to be someone else. In a world in which I have no control over death, I can go and be a healer and patch wounds. In a world in which I have no control over anxiety, I can play a tank and protect my team from harm.

Funny enough, most people who spend 10,000 hours in a videogame don’t have much to show for it, and for a long time I didn’t either. For an outsider to the community, your global ranking, your golden and mythic weapons, or hero skins (think costumes) mean nothing. But to those who know, they are status symbols gained through hard work. They are the virtual equivalent of handmade art masterpieces, a fully pruned and cultivated garden, or muscles from thousands of reps at the gym. But if I may brag for a second, having reached the highest rank, getting a two-thousand-dollar-per-year scholarship for University, winning our division, traveling for competition, and getting an MVP for the year award from our league all count in my book as something to show.

Many people try to paint videogames as detrimental to someone’s health or productivity. However, research shows that true addiction to videogames is rare, and that there is a surprising destressing benefit to mental health for those who game. I personally belive this stigma has come from years of not having any tangible outcome for parents to see come forth from the hobby of videogames, and the lack of relatability to many games. Studies even show parents should engage with their kids and even play with them in order to relate better and build bonds.

During my year of service, I took time away from playing the game, as I didn’t have regular access to a PC. However, this didn’t stop me from studying it. When I came back, I went from player to Coach, now using the leadership abilities I had in-game to help others improve as a team. Although I’m no longer as high of a rank as I was when practicing, I’m happy helping others achieve their goals.

During my year of service, I had the privilege of meeting a game artist who was responsible for some of the art assets in Overwatch. This woman was born in the Philippines by way of a US Service member and was brought to the US at age 3. Although having a work permit and Social Security number, she was pulled over for a speeding infraction, detained by police, turned over to ICE, and taken from California to Texas. This woman had helped not only shape my childhood in a major way, but had also helped me cope in so many ways with the world.

This last year has been one of the hardest of my life, and since coming back from my year of service, I have had the urge to lay in bed all day. Despite this, there is also a competing urge to be out and about each day, exercising my newfound freedom. From going on daily walks or hikes to meeting up with friends these practices have been equally as rejuvenating as my time under the blanket.

On my first immersion experience in undergrad we went to El Salvador to meet their people and learn about our issues1. Almost all of these learning experiences happened around the meal table. This beautiful practice of sharing first the physical, then the spiritual was radically moving. In Spanish, there is a word for this: sobremesa. Sobremesa is a word with no direct translation to English that describes the after mealtime chat. Topics could range from “how was school today” to “what do you think about x”.

The practice of sobremesa is also biblical, with Jesus often sitting and sharing a meal and a chat with the marginalized and sinners of Judea and Galilee. Jesus didn’t only fight injustice by flipping tables— he sat at them too. Jesus combated injustice, yes through anger, but also through dialogue (there is space for both). In this time in my life I find myself trying to change minds through dialogue at and around the table.

This period of my life has been peppered with sobremesa moments. My sincerest gratitude goes out to my friends who have asked and listened to the stories I have had over the last year. These experiences were not crafted only to change me, but to change others and the world as well.

Last week, while visiting an art gallery with some former volunteers, I sliced open my finger while closing a metal door. As I sat in the urgent care waiting room for my tetanus shot, overcome by boredom, I took a good look at my arms and realized they were covered in small cuts and a few scars. Most were from mosquito and other bug bites I had scratched, a few from when I tried to plant a cactus (in between two other cacti) the week before, and a few miscellaneous ones from working around the house.

This simple observation had me realize how tangibly somatic my work can be here at the shelter. From fixing random appliances to groundskeeping to car maintenance, a lot of the work I find myself doing is physical. And it shows. I’m (relatively) tan from the desert sun, and I find my fingernails filled with dirt after a typical day.

During the summer of 2024, during my summer internship, I learned the Spanish word “púas,” or barbs. The mom showed me the cuts on her face as well as on her young son’s feet from the púas placed on bouys in the Rio Grande that cut into their skin.

Another guest, who has since returned to his home country, had many similar cuts on his arms. This puzzled me, as he was physically disabled when a fire in a Mexican detention center asphyxiated him. He obviously was not doing physical work. Then I realized it was the mosquito bites that he had inadvertently scratched due to a lack of motor skills and the ability to swat them away.

Just last week, a kindergarten-aged girl fell from a bunk bed while playing “escondidas” or hide and seek, and cut her leg open. Although we determined she did not need stitches, the mother decided against going to the hospital due to the bill that would come in the mail for them. They are already struggling to pay off a debt from a lawyer.

In everyone, but especially our guests, there are many cuts and scars we do not see. From trauma in their home countries, to the journey, to the situation in our country, many are left wounded. Some become angry and bitter; others fawn and are not able to stand up for themselves. All of this is a product of systems created by people, systems that can (and should) be changed to promote the dignity of the migrant!

As a volunteer, there is tremendous pressure to care for both your past and present wounds as well as the past and present wounds of others. This sacrifice, although difficult, is an important one, as those disinfranchized by society deserve a preferential option to be attended to. Yet that does not negate the difficulty and risk we put ourselves in when trying to help.

Dear God,

Thank you so much for this day. For this roof over our head, for this food we are about to eat. Please bless the hands that helped bring food to our tables, from the agriculture workers to those who cooked it. Please especially bless the people here who are going to share this meal. Bless those who are coming to our house in their journeys, those here in their next steps, and those who have left for their continued guidence. In Jesus’s name we pray, Amen.

Today is my last day in El Paso. I have been weighing this decision to leave early for some time now, and for some of you this will not be a surprise. As reflected in my writing, I have been struggling immensely with the work here. The burnout and depression have been building up for some time, and I’m ready to move on.

This bittersweet moment has taught me a lot, but especially about community. I told those who needed to know, and everyone has been nothing but supportive. People have come out of the woodwork to support me and my health in a way I honestly have never felt before. Thank you all.

When I reflect on what I will miss most, it will probably be the guests. Although they can sometimes have immense needs, they are models of perseverance through hard times. I hope to be a fraction of what they are.

My plan, like most volunteers after an extended period of service, is to do nothing. I want to thoroughly rest and recover from this time before I start grad school in the fall.

This experience, despite being the hardest thing I have ever done, will never be taken for granted. I could not have survived a fraction of this time without my fellow volunteers. You all continue to inspire me and teach me different life lessons. Thank you all; you will all be missed.

-Daniel De Lude

Most importantly, from the outside, I appear to be the perfect Catholic. But reality would say otherwise. However, this post is less about counting sins and shortcomings and more about how I live despite them, and how I can be both faithful and sinful at the same time.

I think it’s important for all, but especially Catholics, to be authentic with themselves and their faith. Luke 5:32 calls not the righteous, but the sinner, into communion with God. In reality, faith isn’t for the perfect person, but for everyone else who struggles with something in their lives. This guiding principle gave me the courage to apply to Theology School.

Throughout my time writing, my grandmother has been sharing some of my posts with her faith community in the Myrtle Beach area, and I received Anthony De Mello’s book Song of the Bird from one of them. In it, De Mello compiles many parables from various faith traditions to help the reader learn more about themselves from a Theological lens. My favorite one so far, from which the book’s title is derived, is as follows.

This parable reveals two very important things about theology. First, it is imperfect in itself. Theology is not the study of God, but instead the study of what we can know about God. A core part of theology is accepting what the Catholic Church would call a “mystery”. These are not so much problems to be solved but instead invitations to learn about. Mysteries such as the Trinity, Evil, and Creation itslef are never ment to fullly be understood. And for an aspiring theologian, I take confort in that. My humanity is not fully ment to be understood and disected into a “good” or “bad” person. Instead its ment to be loved and embraced, as God calls us to do.

Those who did not grow up watching the science channel, as I did, may not have known about this graph from a young age. This is a fire triangle, also known as a combustion triangle. This witty illustration depicts the three conditions necessary for a flame: heat, oxygen, and fuel. All three must be present not only to start a fire, but to sustain it.

When I started my first full-time opportunity post-grad, I was a perfect flame.

My fuel was the work to be done, the suffering I could feel I was alleviating in the people I was serving with and for, through my tangible actions. This was a good and sustainable fuel. I could see it, feel it, and even measure it if I wanted. As long as there were people to help, there would be fuel to sustain my flame.

My oxygen was my coworkers. Brave, inspiring, strong, yet vulnerable, these amazing people continue to teach me what it means to live out a just life. Each person has something to teach you. This is how you make a bed invitingly. This is how you change a baby without tearing off the diaper flaps. This is how you laugh, and this is how you cry. As long as there were good, quality people to surround my being with, there would be oxygen to sustain my flame.

My heat was my faith, something that I thought was unshakable. This was my spark, my sustaining force in the world. My faith kept me grounded, focused, and dedicated to my work. I could feel it grow with every new source of oxygen and fuel added to my flame.
Now I find my self, my being, my flame, cold. It feels lonely, lacking faith and hope. My flame feels as though it’s the only bright thing in a dark room, keeping very few lit. Shivering in the corner, low on fuel, suffocated out of oxygen, these times are hard.

Then I remember:

How they created the world, the creatures of the world, and humanity, by declaring let there be flame.

How in their darkest and most desolate time, they spoke to him from a bush aflame, then released his people from slavery in a foreign land.

How he baptized the Son of God in spirit and flame, then the Son of God sent out his followers with tongues of flame.

And how at the end of times, he will appear with eyes of flame to look into each of us, and see how bright your flame was.

I strive to be a compassionate and loving person. But as I worked and worked, I felt as though I was losing this part of me. I found myself yet again in a space of desolation. Desolation, which also can be described as a separation from God, is never final. Having experienced desolation before, I found myself yearning for a change. I explored myself, sitting and thinking about life while staring at the ceiling. I explored the world, heading to the Gila National Forest to see the stars. I tried working harder and immersing myself more, and I tried pulling back and taking a break from everything for a while. But the most important work I did was reflecting on my community, and what it means to be.

Today, 3/30/2026, marks (roughly) my 342nd day living in a migrant shelter. This includes the 8 months from this year’s commitment, in addition to the 12 weeks from last year’s internship. And after all that time, I can officially say I know what it means to live this life. It’s no longer a trip, or even an experience. It’s life now. It’s a way of being. And it’s hard.

Learning how to live alongside others, hearing daily of trauma, and being constantly (24 hours a day, 5.5 days a week [we get 1.5 days off a week]) available to serve with and for someone. Its exausting. It takes a toll on you. And I have 122 days left.

However, there is joy. Although there is and will always be a distinction between guest and volunteer, that distinction becomes less and less defined as time goes on. We cook, then do the dishes together. We talk about our pasts, good and bad. We care for each other when we're not feeling good.

Over the past month, I’ve been feeling depressed. And it’s not loneliness, for that ailment’s cure is community, and I have plenty of that. What I am feeling is emotional burnout. I’ve given and given until I can’t give any longer. I’ve gotten to the point where I’ve neglected myself in my passion to give to others. And it’s time I reclaim myself.

I’m not leaving my organization, nor am I leaving El Paso. I still yearn to serve and to live with and for others. However, I need some type of reset to work on myself. Funny enough, what the world needs more of is what I have too much of. That is why I’ve made the decision to move from living in my shelter to having my own place. It’s no longer sustainable to be surrounded by lists that will never be completed and needs I can not fill.

Instead, all I can do is look inward. For I know I am not made to fix but instead to help. That I can not carry others’ emotions, for they are not my own. This move is a band-aid for a larger problem I have. Even if temporary, it will give me the relief I need to work on myself and address life.

Sitting here writing this, I have the privilege to step outside and see the moon 1 day before becoming full. Its light illuminates my future.

I dedicate this reflection to the following:

Throughout our shelter, we hear stories of people who come through the Darien Gap, climb Central American mountains, and walk through Mexican deserts, only for our country to detain them and or send them back in the midst of their legal processes. Many will endure such hardships to send money back to their family due to the economic state of the nations they come from. This process, known as remittance, is essential for both the economic prosperity of nations as well as the life or death of many families on a personal level.

Every Lenten season, all Catholics are called to emphasize prayer, fasting, and almsgiving in preparation for Easter. Keeping this in mind, I wanted to connect especially with the poor in migration across the world and in our shelter experience. My goal was to do what so many around the world do: live on a dollar a day.

The rules were simple: every day, I would get an extra dollar to spend, starting at 0. I could go into debt as well as collect a surplus. Others could buy things for me, although I was to keep my Lenten journey a relative secret. Furthermore, things for mental and physical health, such as medication and copays, were set aside.

However, when putting this into practice, I was faced with many obstacles. The first being that money was a tool people used to have fun social activities, such as going shopping or grabbing a bite to eat. I found myself torn between my relationships and this promise I had made myself to not spend. Secondly, money was a lever I could pull to make myself feel better. I had started these $10 salsa classes, and it has not only become a routine, but a way for me to exercise and escape from the stress of my current position.

Finally, I began to reflect on who I was really helping. To help picture my feelings, consider this analogy. After I had heard about all the people around the world sleeping on the floor, I had myslef began sleeping on the floor to know what it was like. While there are reasons for unconfortable experiences, the reality is that I don’t need to sleep on the floor to empathise with those sleeping on the floor. Plus, sleeping on the floor does not give anyone else in poverty.

This all came to a boiling point during one of our all-volunteer Sunday reflections, in which we reflected on Isaiah 58:6-9, which says:

This powerful passage stirred in me a sense of purpose and justice. Instead of saving money for myself, I could intentionally save money for others. For this reason, I am revising my Lenten promise to save about $40 over the course of Lent to give a sleeping bag to someone on the street. This act will shelter the poor and have a real impact on the world.

Radicalize: cause (someone) to adopt radical positions on political or social issues.

I remember my High School did a vigil for Parkland, Florida’s mass school shooting (17 dead), calling for an end to gun violence, and wondering what would happen if someone came in and shot up our gym, with all 1,500 of us present.

I remember feeling hunger pains after eating only a plate of rice and beans for lunch for “poverty education week” after cross-country practice.

I remember going to El Salvador and Costa Rica, seeing poverty unimaginable to most United States Citizens.

I remember sitting in Mass hearing the priest read out, “Truly I tell you, whatever you did not do for one of the least of these, you did not do for me”(Matthew 25:45).

I remember LGBTQIA+ folk telling me about their mental struggle as frequent fliers to the hospital due to the rhetoric those around them use.

I remember handing out blankets to migrants sleeping outside in El Paso. I also remember that after the line had formed, I had to be the one to let them know there were no more blankets.

I remember gardening when I opened my phone to an uncensored video of a former hero being shot through the neck, doing what I used to believe was right. His last words where “Gang Violence”.

I remember seeing video after video of hospitals, apartments, and schools being bombed in Gaza, where people’s only reaction in the West was indifference.

I remember seeing her car’s wheels turned away from the officer after telling him “I’m not mad at you”. These where her last words.

A few weeks ago, after the death of Renne Nicole Good, I thought about abstaining from social media for a while. What a privilege! In a world in which brothers and sisters are being dragged off the streets by masked men, I have the power to ignore it, while others have the reality of living it.

Instead, I learned to engage. I belive my work here is doing something about it, but I still show up to vigils for the dead when I can. I still open Instagram or TikTok knowing it could bring me to tears (again), for I know that being conscious and awake is a testament to those who live realities I sometimes only hear of.

Instead of unplugging, plug in and get involved (IN NON PREFORMATIVE WAYS) to create real change in our world. Call your representatives, donate to charities, organize, use your privilege/money as leverage, and speak up so that those who can not due to oppression can be heard!

Scattered throughout the world’s deserts are various cacti. Especially in the Chihuahua desert, there are plenty of New Mexico Agave, Desert Spoons, and Rainbow Cacti (all pictured above). For thousands of years, Cacti have been a symbol of patience and resistance for many, providing nourishment to the hungry and patient.

Sabr صبر— theArabic name for the prickly pear cactus actually translates to patience. Palestinian photojournalist Mahmoud Awadia captured a man eating a cactus, explaining how intertwined the themes of patience and the cactus are for Palestinian liberation in 2024. Read more about the theme as it relates to Palestine here.

For me, the time since graduation from university has been a time to resist. Living in a time in which the world can seem so grim and dark, I find the best way to practice resistance is through patient joy.

In a world in which ICE can come and pick up green card holders, we open Christmas presents.

In a world in which kids are afraid to go to school, we learn how to read analog clocks in our shelter.

In a world in which hardworking people are leaving the US in a mass exodus, we welcome the Christ Figure during our Dec. 24th Posada Celebration.

Although the world may be arid, rocky, and overall hostile, we are all called to be cacti and resist. We are called to patiently wait until the rainfall and grow tall like the cacti, showing that even though the environment says no, we give a resounding yes.

Although we have 4 clothes dryers, the line has its own novelty to it. The methodical pace of a past life hanging their clothes fills me every time I breathe in the fresh air scented with Foca, Zote, and Ariel (a collection of pleasant and popular Hispanic scented products).

One population at our shelter seems to prefer to use our clothes line over our dryers: our Social Security “Señoras.” This group of exclusively Mexican migrants is a forgotten quirk of the border region. They live in their homes 10 months of the year in Chihuahua, Veracruz, Durango, Chiapas, or Michoacán. However, twice a year, they must migrate to El Paso, TX, and prove temporary residency to collect their late husband’s social security checks. These journeys can be long, sometimes over 24-hour bus rides or planes with layovers in Mexico City.
All of their husbands have long passed, many working in the Bracero Program for notoriously unfair wages and squalid living conditoons. Yet they all paid into US Social Security, which their wives now depend on.

Usually, our kitchen is filled with the smell of roasted chilis, ladies singing to Luis Miguel, and the rustle of dishes being washed and dried. However, this month we have no social security Señoras living in our shelter. There are a few reasons for this.

The first is that the population is aging and can no longer travel the distance to collect their checks. This system, although designed to help seniors, is not very senior-friendly. Imagine your 75-year-old relative coordinating international travel and paperwork in a different country to survive.

The second is that for many, it’s no longer worth it. Since Trump took office in January, many of our ladies have not been receiving what is due to them. Traveling to the U.S. costs around 2 months of their benefit (depending on distance and mode of travel). Some take out loans from friends or family to get here, and rely on getting paid on time.
Finally, some are plain afraid to be in the US at a time like this. It’s a combination of fear of Mexico’s rising violence and fear of being swept up in US politics. Some recount being afraid to leave their family without a caregiver for their grandchildren or someone to watch the house while the parents are at work due to the presence of Mexican Cartels. Others, who watch the news in our sala every afternoon, pray for those being stopped by ICE due to the color of their skin during our mealtime prayers.

As our entire Social Security System hangs in the balance of congressional budget approvals, what will happen to our pseudovolunteers who depend on this system for their livelihood? With 4/5ths of Americans agreeing that we should not cut Social Security benefits, this system is integral to more than just migrants.

While the well begins to run dry for our elderly populations, the military industrial complex remains strong, with 5 companies receiving the lion’s share, or $771 billion of the Pentagon’s 1 trillion budget1, ICE officers in plain clothes continue to kidnap our neighbors with signing bonuses of $50,000, and Trump’s net worth has almost doubled in his time as president. We have money for wars but can’t feed the poor! This is ever-present in El Paso, as just today (12-15), I saw about 40 tanks being freighted north towards Fort Bliss.

1. Bridget (name changed for privacy)

Bridget is a middle-aged woman who came through our shelter a few weeks ago. As one of the few who did not speak Spanish, she formed closer bonds with the volunteers than our Spanish-speaking guests. Bridget came to the US as a child; her family was stationed in the US military, but she was born overseas and never became a citizen, instead choosing to become a lawful permanent resident (green card holder). She was detained by ICE for ~6 months after speeding, and had no criminal record since a 2001 speeding ticket she had taken care of in court.

At our shelter, she shared with us the conditions in the detention center. Pregnant woman not getting nutrients and relying on others to give them extra food, the trays of rubbery eggs served for breakfast, and verbal harassment by ICE Officers and private contracted security officers (which often fell upon deaf ears as she was one of the few who knew English).

Bridget was a productive member of society before she was detained. She worked at Blizzard Entertainment as a Programmer and In-Game Art Designer for many video games, including GTA, Diablo, and Overwatch. The reason she makes my list as my hero is that Overwatch, possibly my favorite video game of all time, was in part designed by her. This game brought me immense peace and joy when times were tough in my life. It transported me into a fantasy world in which I could be a different person living in other circumstances than I was currently in. She helped contribute to those joy-filled memories, and for that, I am grateful to her.

2. Edwin (name changed for privacy)

When Edwin came to our shelter, there were two unusual things about his case. The first is that he left the detention center for minors (run by the Office of Refugee Resettlement, not ICE) with about $100 USD to his name. The second is that he was in communication with his lawyer and the Department of Homeland Security to self-deport. Self-deportation (also known as CBP Home) is nothing new for us; we have helped two families do it already. It usually comes with the benefits of paid for commercial flights, a $1000 travel stipend, and ambigusly worded absence of the 10-year immigration after deportation ban.

However, Edwin seemed to have agreed to a militarily coordinated deportation, meaning leaving the U.S. in a military cargo plane in shackles, under the age of 18. For us, this was hard to hear, and for him, harder to grapple with. He just wanted to go home after being in detention for months, so he took the first chance he was given to go home.

Edwin, like many migrants, would not qualify for asylum due to not leaving his country for the five reasons outlined as valid by the U.S. government, but instead leaving due to hunger and poverty. On his Central American farm, he made the equivalent of ~$12 a week working in the fields harvesting corn. He told us he fled to the U.S. after one of his parents died. That begs the question, how did a kid leave detention wtih $100 USD, if he certinally did not bring it from home.

The anwser is that in juvenile detention he got a weekly allowance of ~7 dollars a week (less than he made on his farm). This money was supposed to be used in the comisary to buy extra essentials such as clothing, shoes, food, and hygine equipment. Instead of spending every week like most other people do, he saved every penny he was given, and left detention with 12 weeks worth of money.

One cold morning at 4 am, we got up to wish Edwin goodbye, where an ICE van picked him up, restrained him in shackles, and then brought him to a military plane to be flown him to Guatemala. I had just gone with him to DSW to buy a pair of boots for him to go back with the day before.

When I got there, I was welcomed by Glen, who had just gotten supplies for tomorrow’s work. Every morning, Glen wakes up at 2 a.m. to work and pray simultaneously. He slathers beans, cheese, and pork onto tortillas for about 100 people experiencing homelessness every day. This work may seem very simple to many, something “anyone could do”. However, few people do it.

After touring the house, Glen introduced me to Dimitri, an eccentric traveling painter for the Catholic Worker movement. Our conversations were deep, spiritual, heartfelt, but mostly genuine. There was no BS to cut through; we dove right into the heart of issues such as art, business ethics, spirituality, technology, and politics.

Dimitri continues to inspire me to live a radical life. He lives with no phone, little health insurance, or income. Yet he gets by with the combination of his hard work, artistic talents, and the plentitude of hospitality in the Catholic Worker World.

The next morning, Glen woke up at 2 a.m. to make his burritos, and I woke up at 7 a.m. to go on my petroglyph hike. Afterward, Dimitri and I stopped by Francis house, a soup kitchen run by Glen. There, he had already handed out about 150 burritos for breakfast, and it wasn’t even 10 a.m. yet. As we helped out, I noticed a few things. Among the older population, there was an abundance of young people experiencing homelessness, some of whom looked younger than me. Although some people reminded me of Kensington, Philadelphia, where fentanyl is laced with Tranq to fold people over like zombies, others seemed clean and just down on their luck. The multireligious group of volunteers (Buddhists, Catholics [lay and clergy], Protestants, and non-spiritual) all came together to pray over the food, and we served 3 pots of chili until it ran out.

Yesterday’s Gospel calls us to remember the parable of the Pharisee and the Tax Collector, in which we are not to pray “O God, I thank you that I am not like the rest of humanity” but instead “O God, be merciful to me, a sinner.” (Luke 18:9-14).

My reflections on this:

God be merciful to us, the privileged, who have food yet did not feed Christ, the hungry homeless man.

God be merciful to us, the privileged, who have money yet keep it in our pockets when Christ, the poor homeless woman, asks for it on the street corner.

God be merciful to us, the privileged, who, when Christ the stranger knocked on our country’s door, we called them a drug dealer, a criminal, and a rapist.

God be merciful to us, the privileged, who, when Christ the poor man or woman, looks at us in the eyes, we divert our gaze in favor of ignorance of the problems that surround us.

Now, after tilling the soil, sowing seeds, transplanting seedlings, and watering once or twice a day, the garden is just starting to take shape. However, it will probably be another month before some of our peas and carrots will start to produce a meaningful harvest, and even longer before our saplings take root in their new soil. In being my first garden I have ever tended, what astonishes me is just how slow the process is.

This slowness of life is reflected in our work here on the border. Only 4,596 people were encountered by Border Patrol at the southern border in July of 2025, compared to 56,400 at the same time last year (an over 12x decrease). Our work has gone from the fast life of intakes and changing bedding to a slower pace filled with chatting with our close-knit group of guests, doing random house maintenance such as washing windows and tending to our gardens.

Lately, in the slowness, we have begun to put off doing the dishes and retreating to our rooms in favor of talking around the table, surrounded by empty plates. This tradition, known in Spanish as sobremesa1, is “the time you spend on the table after one of the main meals, just talking or sipping coffee or polishing off the last of the dessert” (pablodf76 on reddit). It’s an intimate time to be present with everyone, in which the pile of dishes, tomorrow’s tasks, and the existential threats to democracy in the U.S. and worldwide are no longer at the forefront of our minds.

Even though progress is slow, there is a sense of resilience and purpose in our work here still. Despite federal funding cuts to NGOs and humanitarian work, legal battles being fought, and increased terror within our nation, which is causing the vulnerable to look elsewhere for a better life, our shelter remains open as a testament to the Gospel values we hold. Even if our work comes to the point at which we are feeding just one migrant in our house, at least we have the act of sharing a meal to celebrate.

In my second-to-last semester at SJU, I took a class heavily rooted in Christian Medical Ethics. This class changed me in many ways, but one thing that stuck with me the longest is how I see autonomy. This core value, although it may conflict with other values, is essential to consider when evaluating situations. In many ethical conundrums we have here on the border, I seem to make out four words in Fr. Clark’s messy handwriting: beneficence, nonmaleficence, autonomy, and justice.

Today I found myself subconsiously struggling with two of these in my head: autonomy and beneficence. Wilson leaves tomorrow morning and has almost everything set to go by now. However, we are leaving much agency about his future up to him. When he gets to Guatemala, he will need to arrange many things for himself. This is a lot of responsibility for a young man with a disability to handle, and in the back of my mind, I can’t help but think he would be better off here in the US.

But today, Wilson said something to me that I couldn’t shake. “Si muero, moriré. Pero quiero que esté ahí en mi hogar. No aquí”. “If I die, I will die. But I want that there in my home, not here”. At the end of the day, there is nothing about Wilson’s future in my control, and I need to be ok with that. Although sometimes it may be difficult to step out of our US-centric mindset, we must realize that Wilson has seen both Guatemala and the US and has decided to go back to his homeland for a reason.

Where are you serving?

This summer I will be spending 10 weeks (8.5 more to go!) working for a migrant shelter in El Paso, TX under the umbrella of the Annunciation House network. My specific location is called Casa Papa Francisco, named after Pope Francis.

Who are you serving?

We serve four migrant populations here.

The first is people (mostly families) proceed by either ICE (Immigrations and Customs Enforcement) or CBP (Customs and Border Patrol). Without the NGOs in El Paso, they would be released to the streets with no safety net.

The second is those who have specific medical needs due to injuries on the US side of the border. A few weeks ago we had a woman who we received who had a broken back from falling off the wall.
The third is what we call age-outs. These are 18-year-old kids who were unaccompanied minors, who were in detention until their 18th birthday. It's always nice to have them because we get to celebrate their birthday (and get some extra hands to help out around the house).

Finally, we have the Social Security ladies. These are (usually) Mexican widows whose families worked in the US and aggregated Social Security benefits while they worked. The widows are employed by us because they must stay in the US for 1 month (every 6 months) to collect the checks from their passed husbands.

What do you do?

In one word: Hospitality. This means receiving guests, making beds, arranging meals, getting them shower supplies, and a new change of clothes while they figure out their travel plans in the interior. Lots of playing with young kids, translating for volunteers who don't speak Spanish, and accompaniment work (which may be a topic for another email). It's half case manager work and half whatever needs to be done to keep the house running.

How can I help?

For privacy reasons, I will not be releasing the address of the house via email, but if you would like to donate to us, please visit https://annunciationhouse.org/donate/ for more information. If you want to volunteer (even for a few weeks visit https://annunciationhouse.org/get-involved/.

You can also help through advocacy. It is a privilege to be involved in politics (not just for the presidential race)!!! Vote for those who can not vote "The who have a voice must speak for those who are voiceless."-St. Oscar Romero

In order to advocate, stay informed. I recommend finding your news from the least biased side of the aisle. Although it may be comforting to watch news that solidifies your own thought processes, it's important to be aware of everything one side of the media is and isn't covering.

What's been my favorite part of El Paso?

Our community here has been so good. From daily reflections/check-ins, to support during hard times, I feel as though I'm being cared for at the same time that I care for others. If I'm running around welcoming people who happen to come during our lunchtime, a Social Security lady always remembers to put out extra food for us.

What has my heart been feeling?

My heart has been so moved by everyone here. Although it has been extremely hard to not be able to solve every immigration problem, I find comfort in the fact that I can provide simple things, like hospitality or companionship. These have refilled me when things have gotten tough. Every day is a blessing to be here. There are still things that make me uncomfortable, such as being able to see Mexico from a hill on my evening walks. Although Juarez and El Paso are so close, there is such a divide within the community. I've encountered so many good and honest people here, which will be the topic of another email.

My question for you all is... How does your faith/belief system impact your political participation?

Keep the questions coming! Feel free to reply and I'll get back to you. That's a lot for one email, so I'll see you all soon with some more updates!

I would be lying if I said the past few days have been easy for us here at the house. For those who don't know, President Biden issued an immigration-focused executive order on June 4th. You can read the details here and the opinion of an expert from the American Immigration Council here. Every day we receive a text message from our director, Ruben Garcia, about the flow of migrants released by Border Patrol and ICE into El Paso NGOs. The number of migrants entering this way into El Paso has dropped dramatically, by more than 1/2. This means more people are being turned away at the border, and being denied their internationally given right for asylum. For many of these people, they are forced to stay in Ciudad Juarez, or other dangerous cities in Mexico that are basically run by cartels, regardless of the strength of their asylum case.

This has left our house with fewer and fewer numbers. For those who are around moral isn't too high, as most are struggling to find work, sponsors, or visas. Believe it or not, people are not meant to live in shelters long-term, and it's showing...

But our house has not been without joy this week. In order to fight the plague of boredom, we have instituted "Camp Casa Papa Francisco" in which we have programming for the kids (English lessons, outside time, crafts, ect.). In addition, a Washington post article has come out featuring our director, and one of our guests Wilson. Wilson is learning to walk again, listing to classic American music like Eye of the Tiger, Purple Rain, and Beat It as he does his laps around the kitchen in his walker. Every Sunday a group of us walk down to the Fox Plaza Flee Market. I bought two CDs (old things you used to put music and videos on), one Celia Cruz and one Gypsy Kings ($9), a delicious churro ($2), and a crate of mangos ($6) for the kids. Our group of summer volunteers went out to see a minor league baseball game (Go Chihuahua!!!) Duolingo has been big among the kids and parents. One day in the kitchen, a father walks in and exclaims "Coffee and Tea" to which everyone laughs. It's little moments like that that keep us motivated to do our work.