Trail of Tears
Two boys drove me down to the border this month. One I saw in the Port Authority Bus Terminal sent up from the border by Texas Governor Abbot. He looked about ten months old and was kept warm with only a Church World Service blanket. I noticed the wrap because I was raising money for CWS/CROP, so some of those funds bought that blanket. His mom, probably from Venezuela, wore a light dress on a cold fall day, but she was only looking for clothes for her boy. We had none. An hour and half later a box of onesies came in, but mother, father and child were long gone by then. The other boy is my grandson, Jack. Just born and at one month already had more clothes than he could possibly use. Tears were in my eyes for a world where one boy will have all he needs and another boy has so little of what he needs.
I was at the Port Authority through work with activists in New York who introduced me to “Witness at the Border,” a group that pays attention to what goes on down there. Their Journey for Justice was going to drive from the Gulf of Mexico at Brownsville, Texas, to the Pacific Ocean in San Diego, California. I drove to Brownsville to join them. A U.S. Army veteran named Jesse was there to bless us on our journey. He was part of a Native people who lived on the Rio Grande long before the Spanish came. Who’s legal and illegal on the land? It is enough to make you cry.
We witnessed the chaos of the border, where there is more military presence on that stretch of land than anywhere else in the country. At the crossing of Eagle Pass, Texas, and Piedras Negras, Mexico, we came upon a “military operation” where young National Guard soldiers with AR-17s and extra ammo clips on their belts traveled in camouflaged armored personnel carriers. They were detaining people who swam across the Rio Grande and surrendered
themselves to the troops. We came upon eight people who were being picked up. An officer commanded us to stay back 50 feet and not take any pictures of soldiers’ faces, though a soldier took pictures of us. A woman who had crossed the border was crying. When a videographer with our group asked why she was crying, she said they were tears of joy because she could not believe she had made it to America.
I left the border at Big Bend National Park and headed to Okmulgee, Oklahoma. My grandfather, an RCA preacher, was born there in 1900. Okmulgee was the end of the “Trail of Tears” when President Andrew Jackson sanctioned the removal of the Creek nation from their lands on the east coast to “Oklahoma Indian Territory.” Then when oil was discovered in Oklahoma and white settlers wanted the land that was given to the natives, a land grab was offered in 1889 to all whites who could claim land. “Sooners” were the ones who cheated and got to the front of the line and made it sooner rather than later. I wonder today what brought my family from Iowa to the “Trail of Tears” by the time my grandpa was born.
I come from a family of refugees that came over on the Mayflower. I can only imagine that my many-greats grandfather Samuel Fuller, age 12, must have wept as a boy when they made it to Plymouth Rock. In years to come it would be those who greeted them who would weep the most.
My grandson, Jack, was born under the harvest moon of September. I drove home from the hospital and a full, glowing orange moon reflected all the beauty of the world in that moment. I have wept at the beauty of every full moon since September. As I left the border on my way back to New York, the December full moon was going down in the morning over Mexico. I had seen much brutality, but also much beauty. There were murals painted for Uvalde victims that now line the streets of that town. There was Xan, who fuels her box truck on vegetable oil and goes around the country working for justice. There was Rachna, an Indian grandmother from Queens who showered love and cookies on everyone she met. There was Josh from Brooklyn, who stood for days outside of Matamoras and Homestead when families were being separated, to witness what was happening. There are tears of joy for those having made it to America and hope that we can do better.
I’m a retired preacher now. I preach on the Sundays when primary preachers are away. I’m not preaching on Christmas, a day of beauty wrapped in great joy, but I will preach the Sunday after Christmas, a day of weeping and great sadness. The lectionary invites us to witness the story of refugees on the run to Egypt. Herod’s wrath is poured out on the baby boys of Bethlehem. Rachel weeps for her children, but the Hope of Israel makes it across the border. In these two stories is the reality of our world: the brutality and the beauty, the despair and the hope.
It’s a long drive from Bethlehem to Brownsville. There are a lot of tears on that trail. There is plenty to make you cry, but there is plenty to make you hope. I saw people willing to make a stand and willing to lend a hand. I saw people willing to swim towards hope and people willing to stand for hope. Herod will have his say, but he will not have the last word. Jesus made it across the border. I pray for both of the boys who drove me to the border, that they both may have enough–enough food, shelter and clothing and also enough hope in a better world. I don’t come back from the border with all the answers, but I do have hope.
Action Step: Join Angel Lopez, RCA Missionary, for a trip to the US/Mexico border. Contact Angel at alopez@rca.org, or visit Angel’s missionary page at: https://www.rca.org/global-mission/missionaries/jose-angel-lopez/ for more information
Action Step:
Join Angel Lopez, RCA Missionary, for a trip to the US/Mexico border. Contact Angel at alopez@rca.org, or visit Angel’s missionary page or more information.