Prayer Books, Meditations, and Devotionals

June Sunset in Ohio

I've kept them all over the years, even the ones I never thought I'd read. Prayer and meditation books of all kinds, from pagan, to New Age, to Christian. Yesterday someone posted on Facebook that this month was Ramadan. I get other-than-Christian religious holidays confused, especially Jewish and Muslim ones. I grew up a Christian, after all, and although I have tried to educate myself over time, Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, and Ramadan are interchangeable enough that I still have to look them up to remember what they are about.

Fasting is a bad idea for a nurse who works 12-hour shifts, especially night shifts during middle age of a woman. The body is going through all sorts of subtle metabolic and hormonal changes in which the lack of any certain kind of food can unexpectedly throw one of them into overdrive. I recently found this out, profoundly, the hard way. But there is a quiet pull to honor a holiday that is not mine, somehow. If I am going to sacrifice something, or even to observe something, I like doing it for short periods of times. Lent is about six weeks long. Ramadan is a month long. I haven't been making it to Quaker meeting often lately. For personal reasons, some of my usual venues for personal fulfillment have some blocks in the road. What to do, what to do. It occurred to me that I might try a small devotion, or meditation each day of Ramadan. 

Most, if not all of them, are on my bookshelf. My daughter put them there when she unpacked the boxes after we moved here, and my nieces rearranged them when they helped me clean. I found the small prayer and meditation booklets of like size in a row together. The most appealing is "Celtic Prayers," by Alexander Carmichael, spiritually, personally, and aesthetically. I have long forgotten who gave this one to me, or whether I bought it myself. I don't know who the author is. I Googled him, and he became even more appealing - a Celtic folklorist and scholar. I'll begin with that one. 

In the same little pile is "Wings of Prayer, Baha'i Prayers for Women," "A Selection of Baha'i Prayers, Holy Writings," and "The Hidden Words, selected writings of Bah'u'llah," given to me by the sister of a former significant other. There is "A Little Journal of Devotions out of Quaker Worship, An experiment with 104 entries across two thousand miles," by Francis D Hole and Ellie Shacter, and "Expectant Listening, Finding God's Thread of Guidance," by Michael Wajda. I haven't looked these people up yet, but the 104 entries sounds interesting. Then there is "Bible Puzzles, Quizzes and Games," by Helen Pettigrew, that I've been carrying around without actually using since I was a teenager. There are a lot more, but these are the ones that jumped out at me today. 

The problem with me and a meditation time is that my schedule is so upended, and energy levels so unpredictable, that personal commitments, especially those geared for self-support and self-healing, generally work for only a few days. It is pretty predictable, however, that I will get on Facebook every day, since that has become my primary means of communication and self-expression. So why not type out an entry every day in a post? Then I will actually read it. I am going to give it a try.

Where the Butterflies Lay Their Eggs: A story of Immigration, Scotland, Germany, Quakers, and Native Americans

The view of the cluster of residences of my husband's family, past some milkweed in the field.

This is where I live now. It is probably where I will live until I'm 80. Maybe until I die. My home is dead center, just over the hill from the trees. At first glance, it looks like a ridge in eastern Belmont County, but it is so much more. 

It is the site overlooking an ancient Indian settlement. It is the top of a ravine called Whiskey Run, where moonshiners took barrels down to the river for delivery. It is the hay meadow. It is the Indian path to spy on the settlers on Wheeling Island. It is a Revolutionary War land grant in the 7 Ranges. It is a pre-Civil War general's dream farm. It is near where my husband ran for help as his grandfather died of a heart attack. It is near where my husband's tractor rolled over on him and permanently deformed his clavicle. It is where coyotes chew on toy dolls they stole from someone's barn or yard. It is where the turkeys and deer feed. It is where my husband has found numerous flint and stone tools. It is a spiritual Native American ground. I am likely the very first Quaker to live here. I often feel somewhat misplaced. I also feel honored; abandoned; discontent, and some sort of content all at the same time.

My husband, Bruce, has worked this farm for most of his life, from childhood, minus about 20 years. During the time away, he was a hippie, traveling with friends, hitchhiking, helping his brother round up and brand cows in Colorado, walking barefoot in California, being a vegetarian. For most of his life, he was here, in Ohio, two high ridges in from the Ohio River; two high ridges over from Wheeling, WV.

Wheeling Island from Kirkwood Heights before 9/11, taken by me.

If one drives along this ridge until it descends into the river valley, one eventually comes to this view, looking up the river, at Wheeling Island, Martins Ferry on this side, and Wheeling, WV on the other. Bridgeport and National Road (Route 40, where it crosses the Island) is directly below. I grew up with panoramic scenes like this each morning, going to school in Bellaire, which is further south from this view. In the autumn, the river is shrouded with fog in the mornings, and the hilltops look like a wonderland above marshmallows. 

The little clip of the flat to the right is near where the Wheeling Slave Auction Block sat. The hilltop to the right of the river is likely near the vicinity of Fort Henry, the first settlement west of the Allegheny Mountains. The other side of the that hilltop is the steep cliff where McCulloch's horse took a great leap down into the Wheeling Creek valley when he had arrived to Fort Henry, and was fleeing from the Indians. He and his horse survived the leap; one of the great Ohio Valley legends. This was Lewis Wetzel's favorite stomping grounds.

I travel down this hill to Riesbecks to go grocery shopping, or when I want to go up the river to the Pittsburgh airport, or to Wheeling. 

The Allegheny's are the eastern "Great Divide," where the water runs into the Mississipi and to the Gulf of Mexico, instead of into the Atlantic Ocean. The lip you see here along the West Virginia side of the Ohio River is the trail where settlers traveled south from Pittsburgh before the Revolutionary War. Now it is the path of WV Route 2. Ohio's lip houses OH Route 7.

This picture is the setting for several books: Zane Grey's trilogy, "The Spirit of the Border," "Betty Zane," and "The Last Trail;" Allan W. Eckert's "That Dark and Bloody River;" Alan Fitzpatrick's "Wilderness War on the Ohio," John S. Cochran's "Bonnie Belmont," and Susan G. Hall's "Appalachian Ohio and the Civil War, 1862-1863." All of these books are in my library, and I've read all but the last cover-to-cover. Hall's book details the religious sects that settled this area. I have an early American family tree consisting of mostly pre-Revolutionary War families; the Quakers on my mother's side, and the Presbyterian Scots-Irish and Pennsylvania Dutch German Lutherans on my father's side. I am all of this. So I belong here, whether or not I feel like I belong. I embrace it all, in its entirety - its violence; its inhumanity; its refuge for those who refused to participate in the inhumanity; what it means for the past, the present; and the future. And I don't belong. I am not a Native American; yet I live where they made their tools probably for a thousand or more years before my people arrived. 

How incredibly relevant that the seeds pictured above will grow plants that feed a butterfly species, pictured below, that will likely migrate to Mexico. 

Monarch Butterfly on Scottish Thistle, with a Praying Mantis

 My favorite song about the area, about freedom, and the dedication to insuring human rights for all people:

"Ohio" by Patty Griffin

Working Night Shift, Lip Reading, Spanish, and Crackers

I have worked night shift before, but never in this capacity. The past two years have been a career roller coaster ride. I finished my Bachelor of Science in Nursing (BSN) last June of 2013, and the roller coaster only accelerated.  I've been a registered nurse (RN) since completing an Associate's Degree program (ADN) in 1997. I thought the BSN might improve my career. At least, it was supposed to insure employment stability.

Some obscure time soon many RN's in the U.S. will have to have a BSN to keep the jobs they already have. The American Nurses Association (ANA) would like to phase out all but four year training programs. The literature supporting this move says there are better patient outcomes for people cared for by BSN graduates. All registered nurses (RNs) take the same board exam whether they finished a two year (ADN), three year (Diploma), or four year (BSN) program. Amazingly some BSN nurses still think they take a different test. The NCLEX is the NCLEX no matter what program completed to qualify to sit for it. 

To be fair, some of the career issues are self-induced. That is for another post. For now, I am here, where I ended up, and have hopefully exited the ride. Not sure I'm up for another.

On December 31st, I began my current position, bringing in the new year. I hope to stay here for a long time. I am a direct care nurse on a vent unit in a sub-acute care facility. I like it here. I am still sort of catching my breath. I am working straight night shift, and my schedule rotates regularly every two weeks, alternating with the other primary night shift nurse working on the same unit. This covers 6 shifts per week. Another nurse works the 7th night. Unless one of us needs a certain night off, the schedule does not change; nor does my assignment.

In the past two years I have been a cardiac nurse, have pulled femoral artery sheaths, the tube they put in your groin during a heart cath, (and trained others to do so), been a nurse supervisor in a nursing home, and have done MDS's (minimum data sets, or assessments of care provided in nursing homes for insurance billing) while writing a power point on Ohio's "Nursing Home Bill." I have worked as a travel nurse in a city hospital where I helped care for a large Somolian population, as well as numerous other nationalities and sub-nationalities I had never heard of. I also worked alongside 1st generation Somolian-Americans. I have floated to neuro, orthopedic, ICU, and step-down units. I have used five electronic medical record systems, Veriscan bar coding, finger print computer sign on pads, unit wireless telephones, overhead paging, and the Vocera wearable intercom system. I've had several parking passes, and have learned and formed numerous passcodes. I have used 4 different kinds of IV pumps. I have taken CPR and Advanced Cardiac Life Support (ACLS) from profoundly different teachers through different instruction models, including from a bored instructor who skipped most of the class material, gave answers to the CPR test and gave out cards, as well as from an award-winning ACLS instructor from a prominent medical system. What a contrast!

What is not new: 

being a nurse
drawing blood from central lines
venipunctures
IV pumps 
Advanced Cardiac Life Support
making pills more palatable for people who are sick of taking them
putting in Foley catheters
people coming down off of a high becoming psychotic
people wanting more pain medication than they need/an amount that would be lethal to me
trying to keep disoriented or sedated people from falling and hurting themselves
old women in a lot of pain refusing tylenol

What is a blast from the past: 


signing initials in a book for every pill I administer
identifying confused patients by asking coworkers who they are
clocking in and out without a fingerprint
some of my coworkers (one used the same sitter during nursing school 15 years ago)
keeping track of refrigerator temperatures

What is new:

trouble-shooting ventilator problems
learning lip-reading
a regular, routine work schedule
feeling tired all of the time on my days off (more tired than before)
being awake all night on my days off
the people who are online when I'm awake
using a walkie-talkie in a health care setting

I browsed the internet last month, looking for tips on adjusting to a changing circadian rhythm, and on existing on a different schedule than most of the rest of the world. I found a few helpful websites. Mostly I found articles about weight gain and long-term health issues for those who work nights.

What I miss:  

discussing monitor strips and cardiac medications with doctors
acing cardiac monitor tests 
alone time in hotel rooms
fixing dinner for/shopping with hosts
finding interesting shops in the city, like neat ethnic markets, and The Raisin Rack
transient, eclectic friendships with fascinating people
a mixed culture
cars pounding with rap music at traffic lights

What I like: 

being at home, with my family
participating in my daughter's homeschooling
working with people who know me and still like me
a regular, routine work schedule
getting to know patients for longer than a few days
learning lip reading

A word about lip-reading. It is far more useful than I ever anticipated; and it is an art. I am teaching myself Spanish right now also, after visiting the U.S. Mexico border last fall. Lip-reading is every bit as much of a foreign language as Spanish or American Sign Language, and ever more useful for a nurse than many skills I have learned. When that dying patient was mouthing words that I wished I had understood; if only I had known this then. Most long-term ventilator patients are completely lucid. They can take the time to write what they want to say, if they are able. Some only retain some facial movement. On night shift, they want to talk. And they do not want to write it all down. All these years, I have learned to look away when listening, to focus on what someone was saying. This job has forced me to look AT people. More specifically, it has forced me to look at their mouth, and their jaw movements, and to focus on what each part was doing. Are the teeth coming together to form an "s," or is the tongue behind them to form a "th?" Does the jaw drop for the "ah" sound, or is it only half dropped for the "eh" sound? 

Spanish is helping me learn to communicate with people of another ethnicity. Lip reading is helping me learn to communicate with my own family members; even my pets, as I "hear" an array of communication I was never able to hear before.

 One thing about tiredness is that habits limit what you do with your time. We don't get cable TV, so that is out. I've grown weary of Facebook. When everyone is asleep, and you don't feel like cleaning, what do you do? I have started a family recipe book that is nearly finished. I have started watching the Netflix videos I order, but on my computer. The internet here is limited, so I get them in the mail. I work more in my office on papers that have piled up. I have done a little sewing. I do Spanish exercises. I read news articles, and blog. But the one thing I don't mind doing at night, when I'm feeling tired, is cooking. Last night, I made three kinds of crackers. 

I have not made crackers for years. The first batch did not call for enough water, and ended up being mostly crumbles. The second batch turned out okay. The third batch was best. A box of Wheat Thins costs between $3 and $4. The ingredients for a cookie sheet full of crackers, about the same quantity, costs a fraction of that. What's more, you can put whatever you want in them. I have a lot of old spices in my cupboard that need used up. I have 3 containers of caraway seed. I have a 50 lb sack of rye flour in the freezer that I thought at one time I might make sourdough bread with. It turns out the rye with caraway crackers tasted the best. Where have I been all these years?

There is an old Quaker belief, that when something is from God, it will be affirmed somehow. For instance, when someone speaks in meeting, and you feel it is a message for you, but you aren't sure, something will happen to let you know that it is, for sure. Someone else will speak also, and what they say will affirm what the first person said in a way that is only relevant to you. Or someone will come to you after meeting and say something that affirms it. Or an event will tell you so. Such a thing happened to me this past week. After so many changes, I wonder if there will be another change, or whether this is where I am supposed to be. This past week I received a summons for jury duty, for the summer months. I was chosen for a jury years ago. I was working in the same facility. Of all the incredibly odd things to happen.


 

About Casa Grande and CCA

It has been nearly two months since my trip to the southwest. I think about it often. A few significant experiences remain to be written about. One was the shortcut past Casa Grande Ruins National Monument. That was an emotional day.

I left Tucson for the last time the Saturday morning, the very next day after my trip to Buenos Aires Wildlife Refuge. I can’t quite describe my feelings of grief as I descended the back wooden staircase outside, from the upper story of the large house, to the small gravel lot behind Pima Friends Meeting in Tucson. I opened the trunk of the white Honda Sonata rental car and filled it, realizing I had no idea when I would ever be back. The feeling escalated into a mild exasperation when I wasn't able to find someone to pay for the room. People were having meetings downstairs all morning. I did not feel I could interrupt.

Committee work in Friends meetings is often conducted on Saturdays, and those sorts of gatherings are sometimes planned around larger events, such as a quarterly business session. They can last a long time, but usually break for lunch. I walked into the downstairs back door very quietly. Since my mother is a Quaker minister, I am experienced at getting attention when needed without being too disruptive. I hoped someone would leave the meeting room to use the bathroom or have a drink, or get something from their car. Then I could ask who to pay. They didn’t. I sat on the side porch, logged into my bank account, and scheduled a payment to be mailed on the next business day. They could see me through the window. Nobody came out. I felt unjustifiably neglected, but I get like that sometimes. I was told later by email that people “usually put it in the drop box by the front door.” I wondered if people who visited my home meeting ran into such frustrating, somewhat insignificant dilemmas.

When I got into the car, as I turned on the ignition, the tears came. I just cried for a little while. I took one last look at the meetinghouse, and pulled out of the lot. I drove away from the park where Pablo had given me the CD he made. I drove up Interstate 10. I thought of the cross I had carried just a week ago, and wondered where along Interstate 10 the young man whose cross I had carried had been found. I wondered if someone might be there along the road now, just out of sight. After some miles, I felt a strong urge that I sometimes have, for no reason, to take the next exit, and just drive. It was a beautiful, quiet, November Saturday morning in the desert, without a lot of traffic.

The road I pulled off onto was Route 87. I did not want to end up in the middle of nowhere, so I pulled out the map of Arizona I had saved on a previous trip and packed in my computer bag. (No GPS for this 1980’s pizza and buffalo wings delivery girl). The road went to Phoenix. Part-way-there was a notorious brown spot jumping out at me – a National Monument. Yes!

I can’t entirely describe these feelings I have. They are related to the “Quaker knowing,” intuitive-like knowledge I’ve written about before, and sometimes stronger. There is no audible voice, but the words are clear in my mind: “Go this way.” I made note of the approximate distance, and of the part of Mesa I would be arriving into. I recognized the names of some of the streets from driving around my first days in Phoenix. I tucked the map away and drove on.

There were miles upon miles of ripe cotton. I stopped and took a picture. A little further on, off to the left, a red Farmall tractor was kicking up dust, pulling a small harvester. My husband, Bruce, loves Farmalls, and my father did too. I wanted to stop again, but thought I might never make it back to Phoenix if I kept stopping to take photos. My eyes scanned fields, wondering if an immigrant might be sleeping under a large tree, or if they might hide in the local barns. And then I saw it, and a shock went through my whole being.

Picture at this news story link:

http://archive.pahrumpvalleytimes.com/2008/Sep-03-Wed-2008/news/23608276.html

It was the prison. I just had not expected it. It was not on my map. After the week's experiences, there it was, rising out of my pastoral road trip. Immaculate, enormous, and not a soul in sight. The letters, CCA, were on the front of the building. I considered pulling over to take a picture, but the thought of security watching me photograph them through cameras turned my stomach. I mean, I felt ill. If I pulled over, it would more likely be to vomit, I realized, because the physical reaction was that strong. I was shaking, and holding my steering wheel tightly by the time I passed it all. I did stop in the next town; Elroy maybe, and bought a cup of coffee and a donut. My hands were still shaking as I took the money out of my worn, leather, one-pocket zip wallet at the gas station. I had been carrying the old thing, full with my passport card, license, credit and debit cards, and change in a SPIbelt from some old half marathon a few years ago. A SPIbelt is an elastic belt, convenient for marathoners, with zip-pockets, and can be worn over or under clothing. I had just worn it under my clothes into Mexico twice. The young cashier was friendly. Everyone in town seemed friendly, and I wondered how many of them worked at the prison.The shaking subsided.

Finally, I got to Casa Grande. Admission was surprisingly free, because of it being Veterans Day weekend. But I had to take my coffee back out to the car. They did not permit food or drinks. I had my last 5K T-shirt on, and it flouted Wheeling, WV's Ogden Classic. A woman passing me started talking in a very fake “hillbilly” dialect to the people with her, accentuating the bigoted tone of this entire experience. I felt sad and disgusted with the ignorance, and annoyed that some people still found humor in that.

I browsed the museum, then sat and watched the movie prior to the next tour. I took pictures of the display of kinds of building structures in the museum for Bruce, because he likes to construct from raw materials. I could not shake the image of the prison during the entire movie; and as I sat there in the dark, listening to the story of the ancestors of the people who lived here, a quiet, simmering rage filled me. I wondered how many of the descendents of those who lived here were down the road, incarcerated, for simply crossing a political line, drawn by who? And for what? I looked around me, taking note that there was only one tan-skinned family in the room. By the time the movie was over, I was fighting tears, so enraged; wondering what everyone else visiting was here to see; what would they take away? Then we went outside. 

The square holes were for the solstices and equinoxes.

We walked around the structure. To know that this was once one of the largest settlements of native Americans, and their central community structure, left a deep impression on me. How dare we! How dare white people move to this area freely, live here a year, and feel entitled to this place enough to build a prison and incarcerate people whose ancestors lived here thousands of years ago! How dare we! To think that some of the largest prisons for immigrants in the U.S. are right at the very heart of the ancestral grounds of many of the people we put in them is hienous. This is NOT a “free country,” for anyone except those who exploit.

We go vacationing, and look at hieroglyphs, and we don’t understand what they mean, on any level whatsoever.

I keep thinking back to Jan de Hartog’s story about Friends during WWII, in his book, “The Lamb’s War.” It is fiction, but the story that comes to mind most is about the witnessing of Nazi’s killing Jews indiscriminately, and of making their loved ones watch and lose control, for sport. I’ve thought of that often through the years. In the same train of thought, I think of Shane Bauer, imprisoned in Iran, falsely accused of spying while hiking in the mountains near Iran. I think of what he experienced, and his looking into the U.S. prison system when he got home, and writing about it.

http://www.motherjones.com/politics/2012/10/solitary-confinement-shane-bauer

The family and friends of those imprisoned in Iran began a fast for their release. This fast inspired one of the first immigrant rights groups I joined, the Facebook group, Starving for Justice, that led to my taking this trip. I fasted for Shane and his friends, but also with this group, for the immigrants imprisoned in the U.S.. Each week we fasted one day per week, and kept going with it for months. So many people are willing to support people like Shane, an American citizen imprisoned unjustly in a Middle Eastern country, but are unwilling to see or believe the atrocities and injustices being committed here, within our own borders, by us.

Casa Grande left its mark on my soul.

I walked back to my car, indefinably outraged, and drove along the two-lane highway, all the way back to Mesa. I found my way to my son’s home. He and his girlfriend were comfy on their couch, watching TED talks on the television, and working on their laptops. I brought in my luggage, then sat on the easy chair next to them, and turned on my laptop also. An oriental woman on the television was talking about a woman with a ripped vagina from childbirth causing a fistula to her urethra. The uncontrollable leakage and stench inspired her community to leave her to be killed by dogs. This happened somewhere in Asia. She was able fight the dogs off, then crawl to a neighboring town where her fistula was ultimately repaired. And then she made a difference by starting a fund for women in remote places, who had such fistulas caused by childbirth to be repaired. What an odd story for such a day, but a relevant one.

My life is very full and busy. I live over a thousand miles from the border. I came home to my own financial and personal instabilities to deal with; to friends and family talking about their own winter vacations; and to a profound disillusionment with those around me. I came home to people complaining about their employer because they couldn't get the schedules they wanted; to foreigners seeking health care in a city hospital; to drug users losing control while trying to get help. But what was stuck in my vision was images of desperate, despondent, hard-working farmers with blistered feet, who would do anything in the world to be able to have those issues. I am also disillusioned with myself. If someone put me in prison today, I’m positive they could “break” me in a very short period of time, but what would they prove, other than their own inhumanity? What do we prove by putting desperate people in prison for crossing a border? Who are we helping? It is not ourselves, and it is not them. We know people can be broken. I have been thinking a lot since my trip about what it is I am going to do to fix what is happening to so many people.

People I Met In Tucson and Nogales

I have been wanting to write a blog post on some of the noteworthy people I met on this trip whom I have not mentioned, or only mentioned briefly. I do not have pictures of most of them. 

Ulisses

Ulisses
Ulisses was helping out at Grupos Beta, the Mexican Border Patrol. I've mentioned before that Grupos Beta is very different from the U.S. Border Patrol, because they rescue people. Grupos Beta also operates a shelter where deportees can stay for up to three days. On the Friday I went to Nogales, Larry Trent took me to the shelter. The same men I saw in the morning at El Commodor, the cafeteria, were mulling about, brushing their teeth. We gave them cookies and gum that Larry had brought. Ulisses went with us from there to visit the grave of Jose Antonio Elena Rodriguez, the 16-year-old who was shot near the border fence in Nogales. He asked me to take his picture, after Larry told him who I was, and why I was there. Since this picture was taken, Ulisses has tried to cross the border again, and is now in detention. 
 
Marla Conrad 
Marla greeted me with a smile when I was inside the El Commodor cafeteria. She shook my hand, and introduced herself as the Social Worker. Her official title on her card states Migrant Advocate/Volunteer Coordinator for Kino Border Initiative, which is the organization that runs this cafeteria and service for deportees that the U.S. dumps off. I realized immediately the enormity of her job, and I felt honored that she took the time to speak with me when so many people she served were in need. I was also amazed at her pleasant, unhurried demeanor, and her genuine smile. She gave me her card. She is one person who helps immigrants understand their legal rights and what services are available to them.

Christa
Christa was a young EMT who volunteers at El Commodor sometimes. She was there the day I was there, and had come with a group of college students from Flagstaff who were fulfilling academic requirements by volunteering there. She had brought a first-aid kit with her, containing ibuprofen, acetaminophen, aspirin, ace wraps, bandages and other important items. She asked me to confer with her when treating an older man's very bruised feet, what would be the best course of action, and on which pain medication would be most appropriate for him. He denied having allergies. We found ourselves discussing nausea, dehydration, potential liver and kidney problems, what his days ahead might look like and what might be the best advice for him; and I realized that the medical concerns were in a realm I had not experienced in practice before then. It was important to make him understand not to take too many pills at one time. She spoke fluent Spanish, and translated, permitting me to interact with several deportees. It was when I was working with Christa that I realized that I wanted to go back, and help these people more, and that in order to do so, I would need to learn a lot more Spanish. I would also need to understand the issues that went along with desert conditions and spending days in jail with no food. I felt happy here, and in my element, completely. Whether I go back remains to be seen though. Both of us were surrounded by men on the street outside the mission, and they were grateful, and concerned for each other. They had just been through despair together. Christa was showing me some things that could be done for that, and it felt good and right to be there. 

Trish Gehlen
Trish may not see herself as a significant person on this trip, but she was. She was a year ahead of me at the Friends (Quaker) boarding school we attended, Olney Friends School, in Barnesville, Ohio. She has been living in Tucson since 1982, and works for the zoning board there. She offered her home to stay in while I was in Tucson. Even though I only spent one night there, the visit inspired thoughtfulness about aspects of this trip I otherwise may not have considered. When we were in high school together, I was on the student Spiritual Life Committee, when Trish brought forward a concern about the way religion was being presented to the students. At the time, I was an evangelical, born-again Christian, albeit a teenager. Several administrators and board members were also very evangelical, and had a mind that every student should be converted during their stay at the school. Her concern made me question what religion and spirituality were really about for people. I wondered whether trying to convert everyone was a good idea, if it were accomplishing the opposite effect of deterring them from the Christian religion entirely. 

Over the years, her courage for bringing such a heartfelt issue has come back to me numerous times, for different reasons. We were not close at Olney, but we were close and connected to some of the same people from the school, and from Columbus, Ohio. Religion is very much a part of the immigration issue because most of those advocating for humane treatment of these people come because of a religious conviction about it, or give religious arguments for doing so. Many who argue against some of the basic immigrant rights have religious stands in other political areas but seem to be able to separate their politics and religious precepts on this issue. The other place available to me for boarding in Tucson as an alternative to a hotel was the Pima Friends Meeting guest room. Although people in that meeting were involved in immigration issues, none of those people were able to make contact with me during the two nights I stayed there; or at the meeting-for-worship that I attended. I knew they were around though. Trish provided me with a familiar face, with a room with pictures of more familiar faces tacked to a bulletin board, and with the subtle but profound comfort in knowing that spiritually, we had probably come to much more common ground over time. Relaxing in a chair in her living room, talking about people we both knew, and having her dog slobber on my pant leg made me feel much more at home. Understanding that we were on more common ground brought me comfort and confidence in a city I had never visited. 

My room at Pima Friends Meeting

On the wall at Pima Friends Meeting

Cotton crocheted dishcloths left on my desk at Pima Friends Meeting. My son took some of these to Kenya as house gifts. My husband's mother made them personally for him to take. I was charmed to find some made by others, as a hint to do my own dishes.

Sherrie Miller
Sherrie was the caretaker at Pima Friends Meeting. I emailed with the clerk, Jane Kroesen, and Sherrie, prior to and after my stay there. Her daughter was helping her do laundry when I arrived. Sherrie made my stay comfortable despite being down with a cold and despite some general, somewhat significant household issues. The room at the meetinghouse was a quiet haven to gather my thoughts, and to write about these experiences while they were fresh in my mind. I deeply appreciated the space that was not a hotel room, and the Quakerly hospitality far from home. 

 

I didn't know who the man was carrying the crosses, but Pablo is in the white shirt next to him.

Pablo Peregrina
Pablo walked in front of me, and then behind me, for much of the 8-mile 13th Annual Dia de Los Muertos Pilgrimmage. We walked from St. Johns church to San Xavier, where we laid to rest crosses and souls of those who were found dead in the desert in the last fiscal year.  He is a musician who sings border songs. Joel Smith arranged several of these experiences for me, and walked with me nearly the entire way. Joel currently manages the Humane Borders water runs. He told me that he met Pablo after hearing him play several years ago, and that it was Pablo who first engaged him in helping Humane Borders filling water tanks as a volunteer. The day I returned from Sasabe, Mexico, Pablo drove from south Tucson to Pima Friends Meeting in north Tucson, to sell me two of his CD's, which are not available online. He told me a little bit about each song on the CD's, sitting in the grass in the park across the road from the meetinghouse. His songs are meaningful and heartfelt. He told me that he will play his music for travel expenses, in order to share what is happening along the border. I realized that many of the events that transpired to bring me to Tucson might not have happened without Pablo. 

I've written about Joel Smith and Larry Trent in previous posts. They organized most of the events on this trip for me. I was touched by many others, and their names and faces surface in recollection of the trip. Apart from Joel and Larry, these were the primary people who influenced my experience, however, and I want to dedicate this post to them, in gratitude.