It is midnight in El Paso. I’m lying in a bed at a migrant shelter, unable to sleep. Fragments of conversations swirl in my head like dust in a West Texas wind.
            Earlier today, a man from Colombia attempted to describe the perils of crossing the infamous Darien Gap. “Dead bodies,” he mumbled. Then, looking away, he made a chopping motion at his wrist. “No hands.”
            At supper, a teenager from Ecuador related his escape from an extortionist in Mexico. He fled across the mountains and eventually reached our door. At the next table sat a young girl with a vacant stare, her face swollen. A sutured wound, the size of a giant centipede, curled on her cheek.   
 
            I climb out of bed and gaze through a filthy window. A few blocks south, the border wall stretches alongside a major highway. The sound of traffic strums the wall’s metal spikes like a spazzed-out guitarist: incessant, intrusive.
 
            My somber mood fits the season. Holy Week begins in three days. Caught up in swirls of dismay, I summon strength from the words of a long-ago spiritual advisor: “Look for the grace, Luke. Look for the grace.” I trace a finger through the smudge on the glass and go back to bed.
            The next morning, following breakfast, I ask the girl with the scarred face if she is in pain. She nods.
            I pull up a chair.
            “Have you taken medication?”
            A long pause. Another nod.
             “Are you Catholic? Do you wish to be anointed?
            She frowns, touches her fingers to the scar. “Si.”
            “Un momento.”
             I touch her shoulder, then head for the room that serves as a part-time chapel. Returning, I set a cruet of holy oil on the table. I kiss my stole and place it across my shoulders.
            Look for the grace.
            Soon, the oil of sanctifying grace shimmers on her forehead.  Sadly, its sheen fails to reflect in her eyes.   
 
            The next day, I notice the young girl smiling at those around her. By the end of the week, a shy but cheerful spirit begins to emerge.
            The guests at our shelter have permission to reside in the United States until a court hearing grants or denies them political asylum. The hearings take place in cities where the applicants have relatives or where another family has agreed to sponsor them.
              On the afternoon prior to her departure, I take the young girl, along with two young men, to a basement storage room filled with donated clothing.
            As soon as the girl enters the room, the expression on her face changes to that of a child on Christmas morning.
            She rushes to the shelves to rummage through the piles of hand-me-downs: tee-shirts with school logos, jeans with decorative patches, dresses festooned with sequins.
            “Mira! Mira!” 
            The word means “Look!,” but today it sounds more like “Miracle!”
            Suddenly, she stops and throws me a glance.  “Gratis?”
            I smile. “Take whatever you want.”
            Her eyes glisten, her face beams. She checks sizes, twirls and dances. She finds a purple bathrobe and pulls it on. She staps on a pair of high heels and prances across the floor. The young men whoop and clap their hands.
            Before heading back upstairs, the Queen of Hand-Me-Downs spies a rack of sweaters in a far corner. Setting aside the bundle in her arms, she hurries to examine the array of soft knits and dyed wool.
            “Dios mio,” she whispers. “Oh, my God!”
            Her exuberance transforms into childlike reverence. She removes a long, flowing cardigan from the rack. Bowing her head, she touches the garment to the scar on her cheek.
             Printed on the beige yarn are dozens of bright, blue anchors. She lifts the garment to the light of a bare bulb. The symbols of hope tilt and leap, grinning like kittens in a bed of straw.
            She kisses the yoke, then dons the sweater like a vestment.