I've been thinking a lot about my time working in Texas doing Know Your Rights presentations to people seeking asylum. Some of the most impactful moments of my job were the ones outside of my job description.
At one detention center, when the government released people, they dropped them with their belongings right outside of the gate. Their families were theoretically notified of their release, but detention centers rarely run on time, and often these families had no way of knowing what time exactly their loved ones would be free.
So, these people were released from detention and dropped on the sidewalk, with no cell service, no data, no way of letting their loved ones know that they would need an uber or taxi to get them to the airport or bus station. Holding only their belongings and their hope, I have never seen such looks of longing and loss, relief and resistance mixed on people's faces.
Whenever I saw people released and waiting, I stopped. They used my phone to contact loved ones, as I reminded them of how important it was to submit their paperwork and show up for their check-ins. It was a different type of Know Your Rights presentation, one conducted in freedom but not yet in safety. One that begged for connection and communion and community.
These people were also often hungry. Released mid-morning, many hadn't been given anything to eat since the night before. I started keeping trail mix in my trunk and offering it as we waited for ubers and asked and answered questions.
When I pulled it out of my car, there was always some hesitation to receive it. People would glance at each other, then at the trail mix, then at me, then back at each other. Their eyes asked a million and one questions, and no one wanted to make the first move.
I'll never forget one woman in one of these groups. Surrounded by men and scared to death, she picked up that bag of trail mix with little hesitation. She didn't grab it for herself though. She proceeded to walk from person to person and pour trail mix into their open hands. To this day, it is among the most stunning witnesses of ministry I've encountered.
I wrote this for her, for all of us there that day, and for all of us now.
I am hopeful that it can serve as a reminder for the expansiveness of communion, regardless of the circumstances around us.
On the Woman from Latin America Distributing Trail Mix in the
Detention Center Parking Lot
It was a woman that distributed communion that day.
There was no host
but there was hospitality.
No wine
but there was wonder.
There was no benediction
but there was blessing.
There was no consecration
but there was community.
There was no script
but I saw the Scripture playing out right before my eyes.
There was no patent
but there was power.
No chalice
but there was charity.
There was no building
but something was built.
There was no structure
but there was sustenance.
There was no plan
but there was purpose.
There was no command
but there was communion.
There was no altar
but that day we each were altered.
May we all have her strength to distribute communion. May we all have the strength to receive it. Always. In all ways.
Amen.
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