Friday Field Trips

an immigration poem in This Hour of Deportation

Welcome to Friday Field Trips, a second serving of words and water for paid subscribers to Wednesdays at the Well. I am so glad you’re here and am so grateful for your support.

Last month for the February 12^th edition of Wednesdays at the Well, I wrote Mine and Ours, All or Nothing: A Story of Presence. In this reflection I spoke to my experience visiting immigrants detained in a local jail awaiting deportation. Not a day has gone by since that I haven’t thought about the men I met and the stories they embodied. As the United States descends deeper into danger and disaster, immigrants are especially at risk. The government is not only going after undocumented immigrants, but also those with legal status. The stories are heartbreaking and horrific, much like stories I heard in the detention center.

On Sunday, I was invited to share a poem as part of a workshop for churches on being in ministry with immigrants. Thinking back to your youth, you may remember that some field trips were fun. Others educational or motivational. In sharing this poem today, my hope is that it will move to reflect on the immigration story of your ancestors; to examine your thoughts and perceptions of immigration now; and to consider ways you might use your voice and privilege to advocate for the rights, dignity, and safety of immigrants in your community, this country, and around the world.

Listen to and/or read the poem below.

This Hour of Deportation
©Rebecca Wilson, March 2025

Santa Maria, Madre de Dios, llena eres de gracia

I met Jesús, it went much like I expected
his American dream melted
when ICE arrested him after a traffic stop
he asked if I could get word to his mother that he was okay
I said I’d try
and I scribbled a number a scrap of paper
I nervously called several times later
ring, ring, ring
no one ever answered
I thought about Mary in a garden
calling out to a son who couldn’t answer

and then I met Muhammad
he was just a few years younger than me
inquisitive and skeptical like me

why was I there, he wondered, was it really ok for us to speak
what do christians really believe

our every move was observed
every whisper overheard by guards
the same ones who removed me the first time
I came to visit immigrants imprisoned in the county jail
it was an error on their part although they’d never admit it
they did let me back in

and there I was again, face to face with Muhammad
fielding questions about sin and salvation
and how much I knew about Islam

he knew more about Mother Mary
than my catholic grandmother who hails her every morning
he told me all the passages in the Quran about her
and then he told me about his own mother
how he’s always been a disappointment to her
how he fell in with a bad crowd trying to support his sister
when she became an unwed pregnant teenage mother
how that falling came back to haunt him
right before his MBA program was over
how it led to his arrest

did I know that Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him
lost his mother when he was just a child
I thought about Jesus
sleeping in a manger in a cold and musty stable
so holy, so meek, so mild

Jesus came to set the captives free
and they arrested him and sentenced him to death
one empire crucified his body
we watch in crowds as another mutilates his message

Jesús came to the United States as a baby
swaddled in the arms of his mother
across a human made violently conquered border
following a star lit with the hope of something better and brighter
now scheduled for deportation back to country he’s never known
a language he doesn’t speak
his crime
running a stop sign

Muhammad said with determination
I’m not fighting deportation
I’m just waiting for a flight
and hoping my wife will forgive me
for destroying both our lives
that there’s still a chance to make my mother proud

he asked, what does the Bible say about forgiveness
can God forgive me

and before I could answer
he continued telling me all the things he’s done wrong
all the mistakes he’s made
all the prayers he hasn’t prayed
the drugs he sold to ensure the bills were paid

he took a breath, just long enough for me to ask
Muhammad can you forgive yourself

and then like soldiers to the cross the guards came to our side
time was up, the visit over
Muhammad leaned over the table and said, bless you

and I thought about Jesús
and Jesus and Mary
what it means to carry heavy burdens
that empire puts upon our backs and shoulders
how they bury us and grieve our mothers
teach us to imprison strangers
telling us it’s a way to love our neighbors
that sin is in our hearts
and not the systems that arrest us

that grace like green cards and passports and visas is restricted
that for as low as 5 million dollars you can get it
throw in a little extra to have it overnight expedited packaged in gold

by powers that deny Christ entry
that raid hospitals, schools, and sanctuaries we are told
that freedom is uniquely Christian
that I could never have more in common with Muhammad than with Jesus
that I’m a disappointment too to the mother who birthed me

that I’m not worthy
that I still haven’t suffered enough for God to forgive me
that self-forgiveness means nothing

Santa María, Madre de Dios, As-salamu Alaykum
pray for us now, in this hour of deportation

With Water and Wonder,
Rebecca & 10 Camels