By Liza Neal

“Do you think they will believe me?”
He asked with desperation, scars visible and invisible.
How do I answer such a question?
“I don’t know.”

“Do you think they will separate me from my child?”
She asked clutching her sleeping 2 year old.
How do I answer such a question?
“I don’t know.”

“Why won’t they let us stay together?”
Husband and wife ask with their child’s legs on daddy’s lap and her head on mommy’s.
How do I answer such a question?
“I don’t know.”

“Tengo miedo.”
(I am afraid.)
I am too.
“Reza por mi.”
(Pray for me.)
“Dios – – – –

An old man, probably young in years,
rattles off questions and fears and memories so fast I can’t catch the Spanish words.
“Algunos dias son malos,” I say.
(Some days are bad.)
“Hoy as malo, muy malo,” he agrees.
“Recuerda su valor,” I urge.
(Remember your courage.)
“Recuerda que es un buen hombre.”
(Remember you are a good man.)
“Dios esta contigo.”
(God is with you.)

I do not know how to answer these questions.
I do know this:

God is not with us.
God is crossing the border,
and we have left God
to the gun, and the cell, and the crucifixion.