Immigrant Hearts

His abuelo lifted the iron knocker on the oak church door and let it fall back onto it’s tarnished iron plate. He did this again and again until a nun cracked open the door to the night.

The nun hand worked in the inner-city for many years and had seen many things, but never had she seen the beauty and suffering she saw in the faces and bodies of Maria and Gustavo at the church door that night.

Their eyes were alight with beauty - the beauty of being - the beauty of bringing a new life into the world.

Their bodies were heavy with suffering. They were covered with the dirt and sweat and blood of thousands upon thousands of miles of migration along the migratory road.

Their shoulders sagged under the weight of months of homelessness. The only homes they had found during their journey were the small spaces and simple kindnesses that people had shown them along the way.

They were still and very quiet.

They didn’t make a sound.

The old nun wrapped her arms around them.

“I’m here,” she whispered.

“Estoy aquí.”

Immigrant Hearts (a poem)

My

Heart

Loves home

Winter snow

Spring mountain flowers

Summer salt in the deep, wide sea

Fall leaves on the colorful trees are art for my heart

With tears in eyes, my heart pulls on its brown tattered coat, black holey shoes and red wool scarf

My heart is so tired, poor, huddled, wretched, homeless and tempest-tost. It loves its memories, family, home but it is time for it to go

Too many cold, deserted eyes at checkpoints in lonely streets pointed guns at my heart; too many clouds in rainy seasons empty of rain brought pain to my heart; too many coughs from my children's chests late into night broke my heart

My heart picks up its battered suitcase, with tape all around its ends, lest it break open and spill out my father's favorite shirt, a love letter, a picture of my beautiful children, all I have in the world, onto the ground

Deep in the hull of a ship tossing on stormy seas; high on the roof of a train winding down a long, steep hill; barefoot on a dusty road

Silent, back to back, knee to knee, with poor women and little children…immigrant hearts

With each step along the way our hearts whisper, "Thank you"

With each mile they long for, "I care"

They hope for kindness

Immigrants

Moving

Our

Hearts