Author: Sue Smith

Noboby’s perfect; we all make mistakes. But it’s especially hard when we make mistakes and there’s a little guy (or gal) watching, a child who just wants to be like their dad.

Two immigrant men I know have young sons who are their constant companions. They’ve taught their sons to fish and swim, to ride bikes and to play soccer.

These guys are both great dads and, right now, both are the primary caretakers of their young children.

But they’ve made mistakes and are paying for poor choices made due to the misuse of alcohol. They accept the consequences of their actions, but that’s not what really motivates them to seek help or change.

They’re motivated to change because of the look in the eyes of those little boys who want to be like their dads. Hearing a preschooler ask if Daddy is drinking again and suffering the humiliation of being handcuffed and hauled off to jail in front of their kids when they were stopped for driving under the influence were the catalysts for change.

Both men recognize the physical danger that their drinking habits have caused to their children. More importantly, these dads have come to recognize the damage that is done to their children’s mental and emotional health.

In a 1998 joint-study by CDC-Kaiser Permanente, 10 adverse childhood experiences (or ACEs) were identified as having a significant impact on the mental and physical health of adults.

One of these experiences is growing up in a household where there are substance abuse issues. This alone has motivated these dads to seek help.

While they may be motivated to seek help because of their children, they soon realize that they are other victims.

Many immigrants, asylum seekers and asylees have had their own share of ACEs and/or traumatic experiences during migration. According to therapist Michael Quirke, “a childhood that is scary shapes your nervous system and your brain. It creates a body that is ready to defend itself, or is adept at numbing, ignoring pain, and disconnecting.”

Substance abuse is a form of self-medication from the emotional pain, a means of escape from the overwhelming problems they face or of coping with depression or loneliness.

One of these dads, whom I’ll call E, is from El Salvador. His parents migrated and left him and his three siblings with a grandmother who was unable to care for them.

By age 12, he had run away from an orphanage and struck out alone for the U.S. to join his sister, who was barely 10 years older. With little adult guidance in his life, E became a father at 15, dropped out of school and was drinking heavily after the death of his baby son.

E’s next two significant relationships were with women who “just wanted to party.” He denies using drugs, but E admits that he’s an alcoholic.

One day, he saw his preschool son and step-daughter playing and realized that they were mimicking the actions of their parents when they were drunk. “They were staggering around and all,” he said. “It broke my heart. My kids deserve better.”

The other dad, J, is from Honduras, an asylee who grew up amidst gang violence in his community.

He was beaten and tortured by different gangs because he refused to join, and the police offered no protection, as they believed him to be a member of one of these gangs.

After numerous threats to their lives, armed gang members stormed his home as J and his family narrowly escaped through the back door.

The family split up, and J spent five months living on the streets of Mexico with his three-year-old son before entering the U.S. and requesting asylum.

J relates a harrowing experience of “trying to earn a few pesos for food” at a busy intersection in Mexico City and realizing that his son had wandered away and into traffic.

He also shared about being marked for assassination by one of the cartels, seeking sanctuary in a church and literally stumbling across the U.S. border to safety as they were being pursued by armed members of the cartel.

Many men in general, and many Latino men specifically, have a hard time dealing with their emotions, and this is reinforced by a “machismo” culture.

Men and boys are taught to be strong, tough and independent, and to express feelings, such as fear or anxiety, is to exhibit weakness.

Men, particularly those who have experienced trauma, are more prone to quick or explosive anger, more likely to isolate themselves from others and to avoid dealing with stress.

They often feel that everyone is against them and that no one would understand them. They avoid the appearance of vulnerability.

They often turn to drugs or alcohol as a way of dealing with the difficulties of life when they’re feeling overwhelmed.

Both E and J are taking steps to acknowledge the trauma they’ve experienced and the long-term consequences of not dealing with their emotions in positive ways.

It takes courage to break out of the cultural norms that they’ve been taught, to express vulnerability and to ask for help.

J has frequent nightmares, a common symptom of PTSD, and has difficulty trusting others and asking for help.

His primary focus is on the safety and security of his sons, ensuring that they never have to face the violence and insecurity that he faced. He realizes the key to their wellbeing lies in his ability to address his own mental and emotional health.

E has recently returned to live with his sister and her family, and his young son is with him. They’re attending church on a regular basis, surrounded by a supportive community. He says, “With God’s help, I can be a better person.”

Everyone makes mistakes. But these two young men exhibit a huge degree of courage, strength and faith, along with a fierce love for their children.

It is my prayer that these characteristics are the ones that will shine through and be most evident to their sons.

*This article was published on July 9, 2021 on Good Faith Media

by Renee Edington

I’m Renee Edington, a student at Baptist Seminary of Kentucky and a summer intern* with Cooperative Baptist Fellowship’s (CBF) Student.Go program working with a team of CBF field personnel and interns on a social media campaign to encourage a welcoming attitude toward immigrants. I’m in the middle of a career change — leaving a lifetime of working in the behavioral health field to pursue a call to ministry.

I’m also working part time at a large pharmacy chain this summer. My particular store is a small homey neighborhood place where we have regular customers. They’re a fun mix of affluent homeowners, staff from nearby businesses picking up lunch, ballerinas from the school of dance, groups of preteen boys picking up their favorite bags of colorful candy, teen girls in search of the perfect nail polish, moms and their children making a quick trip in for sunscreen before they head to the pool.

There’s the gay couple who come in every so often and I have to suppress the desire to say “I affirm you! You’re awesome!” because that’s about me and my needs, not about them.

Then there’s the Door Dash delivery regulars who always ask me for help finding the items on their pickup order. One of them frequently seems lost, speaks with a thick accent and I wonder if he’s an immigrant.

There’s the guy who comes in weekly to buy two large bottles of vodka. His hands shake. Every week it’s the same- he carefully concentrates as he counts out his cash and hands it to me, saying “You count that and make sure it’s right.” As I’m bagging his purchase, he reminds me to double bag each bottle because he’s walking. I wonder if he’s walking by choice or if he lost his license because of drinking. I wonder if he counts the minutes until he gets home so he can drink and shake off the beginnings of withdrawal. I smile and we have a brief conversation before he heads out the door.

There’s the young woman who comes in for emergency contraception. Is it for her? Is she buying it for a friend? What’s her backstory? How about the man who is the same age as my father (I know this because I’m required to check the ID of anyone purchasing liquor or cigarettes) who tells me he’s buying the cigarettes for his wife and how he hates secondhand smoke and how he wishes she would stop and how it’s really hard to talk to her sometimes.

In my required training prior to working with customers, one of the sessions focused on treating everyone equally — no judgement or assumptions. We were encouraged to treat everyone the same, regardless of color, dress, appearance, nationality, etc.

Guess what? It’s hard. I find myself making assumptions about all our customers based on how they talk, how they dress, how they pay, what they buy. I let my imagination take over and before I know it, I’ve created an entire storyline for each customer.

I’ve been judging people I don’t even know. There are customers I feel compelled to give extra help. I feel sorry for some customers. I feel empathy for others. There are customers I hope leave quickly. There are customers I hope return often.

What’s all this got to do with my summer internship? Several years ago (in my previous career path), a colleague said something that has stayed with me. We were talking about who was eligible to participate in the program we coordinated. I was being picky and listing all kinds of reasons why someone couldn’t participate because I was trying to follow guidelines from our funding source. She got frustrated with me and said “Why don’t we find ways to include people instead of finding reasons to exclude?” That was a truth I hadn’t seen before.

That was the beginning of a change in my thinking, both in that work setting and in Christianity. My understanding of God has evolved. God is big. Christians don’t have a claim on God. God is inclusive. I thought I was inclusive. I thought I was nonjudgmental.

Then I started this internship working with a team of amazing women to develop a social media campaign aimed at encouraging others to welcome immigrants. I find myself almost surrounded by immigrants- through research and reading or serving and interacting with people I believe to be immigrants at work or walking down the sidewalk to find our neighbor from West Africa on his front porch. He immigrated to the U.S. decades ago. He owns a thriving restaurant. Why do I inwardly react positively to him and his story and negatively toward other immigrants? Why can’t I be welcoming and inclusive of all people?

It’s time I acknowledge my own misperceptions and biases I hold about immigrants. Sure, I’m nice on the surface, but beneath I’m struggling with judgmental thoughts that I’ve pushed far away. Now that I’ve said that out loud, I can’t go back.

Looks like this is the summer I take one more step toward being a true follower of Christ. It’s time I address these biases and move toward full open inclusivity of others in my faith and my world in general. Actually, the two can’t be separated.

*Part of our work at LUCHA Ministries, Inc., is to encourage and mentor students, giving them opportunities to learn more about migrants, refugees, asylum seekers or asylees, and other newcomers in our communities.

It was a steaming-hot afternoon in southern Mexico.

We left the final small market town and traveled nearly an hour on rutted dirt roads to reach this indigenous riverbank community in Los Altos de Chiapas.

This was before the pandemic, and we had come to plan a church-based cattle co-op project.

Several young boys were eager to show us around. “This is our school,” one of them announced proudly.

It was early afternoon on a weekday, and I asked about classes. “Oh, we don’t have school this week; the teacher didn’t come.”

All four boys appeared to be between ages 8 and 12. “What grades are you in?” I asked them in Spanish. They looked puzzled and spoke in Tzeltal among themselves.

One small boy said that he was in the third grade. “Me too,” added a 12-year-old. The other two shrugged their shoulders and said that they weren’t sure.

The educational system appears to be failing these children. While data indicates a 70% literacy rate for the community’s approximately 475 residents, most persons age 15 and older have received an average of only three years of formal education.

Teachers come from outside the community and rarely speak the native language of their students, and children speak limited Spanish when they enter school.

Mondays and Fridays are teacher travel days, so children only have three days of classes per week. For students to continue studies past 6^th grade, they must leave their village and go to a regional boarding school.  

Since the beginning of COVID-19 lockdowns, I have been particularly concerned for the plight of the most vulnerable populations, including women, children and youth.

Students in Latin America and the Caribbean make up 60% of all children worldwide who missed an entire year of school due to COVID-19, according to a March 2021 UNICEF report.

As 2020 drew to a close, more than 97% of students across Latin America remained physically out of school, and schools throughout the region were fully closed for 158 days between March 2020 and February 2021.

Work with community-based projects in Latin America helps me to understand the factors that contribute to migration, and several key points stand out.

People want to live in safety and security, without fear as they go about the daily routine. 

People want jobs so they can earn enough to support their families.

People need hope for a better future, which often comes through educational opportunities.

In just a few short years, these children for whom education opportunities are meager at best will reach the age when many decide to leave their community to seek work.

Some will end up in larger towns and cities nearer home, but many will go to El Norte – to the United States or the northern states of Mexico where there is work in both agriculture and factories.  

Youth from rural, indigenous households with little education, no marketable skills and who live in poverty, have a bleak future in this part of Mexico and Central America.

They’re frequent targets for local gangs at home, and “going north” takes them into cartel country where they’re extremely vulnerable to either recruitment or exploitation.

Migrants often cite gang violence and the recruitment of youth as a major factor for migration. 

During COVID-19, with schools closed, teens have much more free time on their hands, and this has been especially good news for gangs and cartels. The young adults are a source of revenue for the cartels – they’re smuggled, trafficked, kidnapped and victims of extortion.

For some youth, gang affiliation provides a sense of belonging and a means for earning income to help their struggling families. For others, it’s a matter of life or death.

COVID-19 has devastated many families, particularly those living on the edge of poverty. Education provided hope, and the prolonged closing of schools will have long-term consequences.

Students fall farther behind in learning, and many will not return to the classroom. Without opportunities for education or employment, many will be recruited by gangs or violent extremist organizations.

This will exacerbate the desire to migrate.

With COVID lockdowns and border closings, many migrants are faced with few options. Colombia, Ecuador, Chile, Mexico, the US – these countries are already dealing with an overwhelming number of desperate migrants.

For children like my young friends in Chiapas, they are relatively safe in their rural, remote village, but the cost of obtaining land to farm and the risk of crop failures leaves them with little hope for the future.

Many will “go north” to seek employment to help their families, in spite of the danger. Every village family has its story of a youth who has fallen victim to extortion, rape and victimization by the cartels or recruitment by gangs.

In an ideal world, all children and youth would receive a quality education in a stable, safe setting that would provide them with marketable skills and tools leading to employment that pays a living wage. Post-pandemic, we should be strengthening communities by investing in sustainable development and improving educational opportunities. In this way, we decrease the risk of youth engagement in violent groups and also the need for migration.

*A version of this story appeared April 28, 2021 in GoodFaith Media.

LUCHA Ministries, Inc. recently lost its first client to the coronavirus. In addition to grief and loss, immigrants must also deal with the impact that the loss may have on the immigration status of others in the family.

by Greg Smith, Immigration Legal Services Program Director

2,757,339.  On this day, as I write this blog, that is the number of global deaths due to COVID-19.  546,825.  That is the total number of US deaths.  1.  That is the total number of clients LUCHA Ministries Immigration Legal Services have lost to the coronavirus.

That’s one too many.

Over the years, I’ve learned that an immigrant’s legal status in the US (or lack thereof) affects not only her or him but can have significant consequences for the entire family.  Positively, gaining citizenship opens all kinds of doors for the immigrant’s immediate family.  Negatively, a sudden deportation, or even denial of an immigration benefit, can cause indescribable trauma, stress, and fear of an uncertain future.

In late February, one of our clients – a gentle and sweet man from Central America in his mid-fifties, a father, a husband, and church member – died of COVID-19.  His pastor, and good friend of ours, told me the day after his passing.  I sat in my office chair stunned.  It hadn’t been that long since I’d seen him.  In fact, it was last November when we filed his immigration papers, with high hopes his process would be approved and he and his family would enjoy a measure of security they hadn’t known before in their adopted country.

But now he was dead.  His immigration process would stop.  His dreams for himself, for his wife, and for his children were gone.  With tears I mourned his loss as I sat in my office chair.

Quickly my thoughts turned to his wife, for all the obvious reasons, of course – the denial and grief she was experiencing, the shock of now being a single mother, the financial hardships she would face without the family’s primary breadwinner, the role of caregiver and comforter to her children she now assumed even as she struggled emotionally, even spiritually, in her own heart and spirit.

The obvious reasons soon led to a deeper concern – with her husband now gone, her chances of legalizing her own status had also vanished simply because her options for status  depended on the success of his immigration process.  And that was gone.  For now, her chances of emerging into the light of status security were put on hold, for God-only-knows how long.  

At that moment, it became crystal clear like never before not only how tragic COVID-19 is but also how unjust.

God’s mission is a mission of righteousness and justice.  God is about the business of lifting up the downtrodden and the hurting, the fearful and the forgotten.  God abandons no one and especially not the mournful, the meek, and the distressed.  We’ve seen this over and over in our ministry with the Latino and broader immigrant community since we launched LUCHA Ministries in 2004.  We’ve seen God working in the lives of those who suddenly face crises both of and not of their making.  Miracles and “happy endings” aren’t always the results.  But God’s presence always and  faithfully shows up.

So we’re praying and working for this family.  Our program’s volunteer immigration attorney, Bill Botts, has gathered a team to help this man’s widow assess her financial means and capabilities.  He’s also gathering a volunteer team together, with her permission and in partnership with her church, to finish repairs on her home begun by her deceased husband months before.

Ephesians teaches that we struggle not against flesh and blood but against principalities and powers in high places.  Against forces seen but mostly unseen.  Against powers that our feeble human strength is no match for.  Powers that make no sense, adhere to few rules, fight dirty and devastate as much as possible.  Powers so strong that death and destruction are often left in their wake.

Powers like a coronavirus.  Coming out of nowhere.  Unseen, diabolical, overwhelming and, all too often, deadly.

Our only recourse in the struggle against this foe is God’s mission of justice and righteousness. So we organize friends and fellow congregants in support of wives, children, husbands, and others left behind by the devastation of COVID-19.  Or we wear masks and social distance because our love of God  and our neighbors is greater than fears and falsehoods.  Or we get vaccinated and encourage others to get vaccinated – or, as my wife Sue has been doing, help enroll people for their vaccinations – as a crucial step in defeating this diabolic killer.  And we become advocates for vaccine equity. We do this because God’s mission of justice requires it.

It shouldn’t take 2,757,339 deaths, or even 546,825 deaths, to convince us to partner with God in God’s mission of justice in this world.  It shouldn’t even take 1 death.  God’s Spirit is working like there’s no tomorrow carrying out God’s justice in the world.  And you know, there may not be for our neighbors, for you or for me.

One death is one too many.  May we strive, in the power of God’s Spirit, to bring justice to those in our communities and our contexts for the sake of each one and as testimony to the gospel of our Lord Jesus Christ.

Posted on December 9, 2020December 9, 2020

Migrants as Imago Dei: Human Rights and our Responsibility

by Sue Smith

The Christian understanding of human rights begins with an acknowledgement of the imago Dei – that humans are created in God’s own image and likeness.

Every person has inherent dignity and worth, and certain rights just because we’re human beings. But with rights also comes responsibility.

Consider Article 14 from the Universal Declaration of Human Rights: All persons have “the right to seek a safe place to live. If we are frightened of being badly treated in our own country, we have the right to run away to another country to be safe.”

But there is no responsibility placed on other countries to receive these persons.

That’s where we come in.

It’s not enough to simply say that people have the right to seek asylum or refuge. If we believe in this right and embrace the concept of imago Dei, we are compelled to speak out on behalf of a better immigration system, for receiving larger numbers of refugees, for ensuring that the most vulnerable are welcomed.

As a nation, we must provide asylum and accept refugees into our country.

In my work with migrants and refugees, I often talk with people about their experiences, both conditions in their home countries that caused them to flee and seek asylum and the actual process of seeking asylum.

Eva,* a young indigenous woman from a remote village in Central America, is energetic and spunky with an infectious smile.

In her mid-20s, rumors began to circulate in the village that she was a lesbian. Eva sought support from her evangelical church community, but she was labeled “evil” and told she was no longer welcome.

Eva’s parents were told by village leaders to “put her out.” They were reluctant to do so, but a mob came and threatened to burn her parents’ home with the entire family inside if Eva remained in the village.

Eva packed her bags and fled to the US, for both her own safety as well as that of her parents.

Eva was not safe in her own village, among her own people, or in her own country.

Jorge* is seeking asylum. He’s a quiet, respectful teen, a good student who is active in church and college bound. He helps out with his two younger, US-born siblings. His four adult siblings live in El Salvador.

Jorge’s parents tried to keep their sons safe from gangs by bringing them to the US. The two older brothers were both deported, and one was quickly recruited by a gang.

This brother’s gang involvement keeps his siblings and their families safe. “But my brother is getting too old, and now the gang wants me to replace him,” says Jorge.

Jorge is in the United States with his parents because he’s not safe in his own country.

Nina’s* story is one of being kidnapped, raped and held hostage by one of the Mexican cartels. She looks into the face of her newborn son and wonders who he is. “Maybe he’s Mexican, or Guatemalan, or Honduran,” she says. “I honestly don’t know. But I still love my baby.” Nina cannot return to Central America or Mexico; both she and her son would be murdered for having escaped.

Roberto* tells of torture by gangs and harassment by the local police. He has nightmares and relives the beatings and being shot and suffers from PTSD.

He fled his Central American country with his wife and three preschoolers just minutes before gangs burst in and destroyed his home. He was granted asylum and cannot return to his country.

Each day, those of us who work with migrants and refugees hear these stories and walk alongside people who are hoping to find a safe place to live and raise their families. There’s no question that each of these persons is created by God, in God’s own image, and are persons of dignity and worth.

Part of our responsibility as followers of Christ is to go farther than listening and responding to basic physical needs. We must acknowledge the abusive power structures and injustices that have caused others to seek asylum and refuge, and to offer hope to those who end up in our nation.

But where do we start?

First, we must put aside our fear, mistrust or even hatred for those who are different.

Migrants, refugees and immigrants are all created in the imago Dei, in God’s image, just as we are, regardless of race, ethnicity, religion or language.

Second, we must become more educated and informed about migration and displacement.

This necessitates a willingness to explore the role that we collectively played (or play) in the creation of certain conditions that led (or lead) to displacement.

Third, we must become actively involved in speaking out on behalf of and alongside those who are forced to flee in order to live in safety and security.

This is also part of the imago Dei, to join with God in the work of building God’s kingdom here on earth.

And finally, get involved in the life of an immigrant, refugee or asylee.

I closely follow the work of a network of pastors working both in the US and Mexico. While the situation on the Mexican border has fallen out of the headlines, the situation still exists.

One day, I mentioned pastor Lorenzo Ortiz’s name in a conversation with Nina. She knew of him and of his compassion and witness for Christ. He’s apparently well-known on the northern Mexico migrant route for his ministry to migrants and asylum-seekers.

While life in one of the network’s migrant shelters isn’t a permanent home, it’s at least a temporary safe place to live.

Pastor Lorenzo helps with food, transportation and shelter, but what he represents to Nina and other migrants like her is hope – hope from the knowledge that someone has seen their plight, has heard their cries, and cares.

This is pastoral care. This is the imago Dei in action.

The right to seek a safe place to live is enshrined in the UDHR to which the U.S. is a signatory. Yet, there is a continuing crisis at our border, with people who still hold out hope that we’ll live up to our commitments.

Perhaps 2021 is a good time to reflect on our attitudes about migrants and refugees, and to find our place in both advocacy and action.

*names changed to protect the identity of these persons

This article originally appeared December 9, 2020 in Good Faith Media.
Read more information about Pastor Lorenzo and his work at the border with Fellowship Southwest.

by Sue Smith

LUCHA’s immigration legal services program is an essential ministry for low-income immigrants and refugees in our community.

Beginning in February, as more and more persons became concerned about the ability to pay for immigration-related appointments, LUCHA Ministries made the decision to waive our fees. Many of the families we serve were negatively affected by COVID-19 and struggling to pay even our modest costs for immigration legal services. We didn’t want to cause them additional financial hardships — or cause their immigration process to be delayed!

Thanks to our awesome supporters, we have been able to waive the charges for 62 low-income clients during 2020 (an average cost of $125/person) — and still cover our programming costs! And we plan to continue offering pro bono services throughout the remainder of 2020.

Our services offer a significant savings for our low-income clients, and provide them with access to quality legal services that is often unaffordable with private immigration attorneys.

One Central American family of four, all asylees who are applying for Legal Permanent Residency (“Green Card”) status, received pro bono legal services to process their applications to adjust status. Neither parent was working due to COVID-19, and even LUCHA’s basic fees for low-income individuals would have been difficult for this family. LUCHA’s regular charges would have been $450 for all four, which is less than 10% of the estimated $5,200 cost using a private immigration attorney.

Our staff also helps low-income clients apply for fee waivers from the USCIS (US Citizenship and Immigration Services), which resulted in additional savings of $4,425 for this family. Essentially, LUCHA was able to help this unemployed family not only apply for Green Cards, but save nearly $10,000 in the process!

Our legal services program began in 2016 with approval from the Department of Justice as a Recognized Organization and authorized provider of Legal Services. This DOJ program allows churches and non-profit organizations to provide legal services through a qualified Accredited (non-attorney) Representative. One of the requirements of the program is that our fee structure is “nominal”, or a fraction of the cost of what an immigration attorney would charge.

LUCHA Ministries embraces a holistic approach to service delivery. As we get to know families through one specific program area, we often discover other needs. We may discover legal services clients who may need food or emergency assistance grants, and clients receiving food assistance or benefitting from case management services may have questions about an immigration case.

And perhaps most importantly in our ministry, we listen. Counseling and pastoral care services are offered in Spanish, and we often offer to pray with clients regarding a particular concern or need.

Our model has been particularly effective during these difficult times of COVID-19. We’ve been able to talk with persons about their immigration status, identify those who are unemployed and need a short-term emergency grant or food assistance, or just simply need to talk with someone about the emotional distress and stress they are feeling.

As we go into the colder winter months, we will continue to focus on the basics: caring for immigrants by providing for crisis needs, including food, emergency funds for housing or medications, etc., and by being present and listening.