Christ, the Refugee

So here we are at Easter.  My mind is stuck on a conversation I had yesterday with a friend who is undocumented.  Tears spilled down her cheeks as she talked about losing everyone to come here with her husband and children.  Obviously someone doesn't do that unless the situation is dire.  Now her husband's father is on his death bed in Mexico, and they can't do what most of us take for granted: go home and say goodbye.

Father's Day

I spent this last Father’s Day in silent, burning rage at my dad, and it’s taken me three months to sort it out enough to write.