Songs about ranch hands and horses blared from the dash of my pickup when I drove to Texas twenty years ago. The Amarillo Diocese needed priests and I needed land to raise cows and break colts. God answered my prayers...
On the way to Mass at the Mission of Mt. Carmel, I am greeted by the face of Our Lady of Guadalupe peering from a large mural painted on a gas station wall. Poised at an angle above the gas pumps and a delivery truck, her blue veil and gentle smile warms the morning air. As always happens when I behold this image of Our Lady, the words she spoke to St. Juan Diego echo in my soul, “I am your mother. Am I not your mother?”
The road to El Paso pushes through an arid region of tall yucca and thin grass. South of Carlsbad, a mountain range sawtooths the horizon like the snarl of an angry dog. The vast expanse is brown and brittle, a land of cactus and serpents. I arrive at the migrant shelter after dark...