At the Border

Sitting at my writing table with my coffee, I can’t take my mind off the struggling, vulnerable migrants I have been meeting. I keep trying to see through their eyes, maybe feel a little of what they feel. But it’s so hard to imagine, we are living in such different worlds. And we are passing through each other’s lives so quickly, my understanding of them is very impressionistic, to say the least. The other day, I got a slight peek inside the tent by the border wall where our family is staying – mom, dad, and 3 little kids, aged 10, 6, and 4. Really, it’s not a tent. It’s a slew of blankets and tarps draped over a wooden frame. And it is nothing but dark inside. During the day, at least a couple people sit outside the tent talking, waiting for their turn to be called by US Customs and Immigration across the borderline. But others spend their time in the darkness inside. It was cold and raining, so I can only guess how slowly the dreary time passed as they likely huddled beneath...