Witnesses to Resurrections

by Becky Klein, a Desert Palm UCC member and Welcome Center volunteer

During the Easter Season, Pastor Tom from Desert Palm UCC asked members of the congregation to share their own personal stories of resurrection.  Becky Klein submitted this reflection in response:

For those of us who volunteer at the Welcome Center, we are witnesses to ‘resurrections’ every time we visit the Center.

We see the exhausted faces of refugees who have made their way to the southern border where they were allowed into the US and detained in a border facility for several weeks while paperwork is processed. After having satisfied the requirements for asylum, asylees board a bus and are taken to one of several Phoenix locations where they are fed, given clean clothing and a place to sleep. Many depart within 24 hours, traveling by plane or bus to their final U.S. destination.   

When the asylees arrive at the Welcome Center it must feel like they have entered another holding facility. Imagine their relief when they realize the Welcome Center is different. They are signed-in, checked by medical doctors, given legal assistance, and, just as the rock was rolled away from the tomb, a new door opens before them! Colorful hallways with signs written in different languages welcome them, offering choices as to what to do next. When was the last time they had such opportunities within reach? Do they see this moment as one of resurrection, remembering when they made the decision to leave everything they knew, to come to America?

Resurrection observations have included the following moments at the Center.

  • The baby will never know the tears his father shed when given three pairs of infant socks, socks that had been worn by another baby before him. The father’s decision to come to the US was affirmed, he knew someone cared about his tiny son, and he cried.
  • Women are looking for a broom, as they offer to sweep the floors in gratitude for their meals, showers and a cot to sleep on. Like the baby’s father, they have found a sanctuary where they can shed themselves of the anguish they suffered on their journey to this building with murals on the walls. At the Center they have renewed life and faith, knowing strangers are helping them.  
  • The man has a confused expression on his face when he is served a meal that is not anything like what he remembers from his homeland. He takes the food, and soon returns to the kitchen serving window with his empty plate, hoping there might be more. He is given a clean plate, with another helping of his now ‘favorite’ American meal. His new reality started with a warm plate of food.
  • We see a stress-free family sitting on a small bench outside the doors of the Center, soaking in the warm sunrays while letting the slight breeze sweep away their anxiety. Even if only for a moment, here was calm, and it felt good.
  • The happiness on the face of a wide-eyed child as she giggles out loud – and then looks to her family to see if her robust antics are ok. The laughter only grows, as her mother joins in the spontaneous bliss in the Center’s cafeteria. There is laughter, and it felt good.

Before closing, we remember the successes for families immigrating to the East Valley hosted by the EV Network at University Presbyterian Church. Three families from Iran, a family from Afghanistan, and a man from Uganda have been given sanctuary as they are guided through the regimen to become US Citizens. Their hopes are being realized, granted sometimes at a very slow pace, with the support of the EV Network which includes Desert Palm.

Everyday there is a moment of resurrection for asylees, a moment filled with hope that cannot be tamped down.

As Pastor Tom says, “May It Be.”

On Pentecost and Tattoos

by Rev. Deb Beloved Church

“…at this sound the crowd gathered and was bewildered, because each one heard them speaking in the native language of each. Amazed and astonished, they asked, ‘Are not all these who are speaking Galileans? And how is it that…in our own languages we hear them speaking about God’s deeds of power?’ (Selected verses from Acts 2, NRSV)

“You’re the coolest minister I’ve ever met.” 

So said Jordan, the tattoo artist who gave me my first tattoo, in May of 2021, at Talisman BodyArt in Santa Fe. 

To honor the struggle my daughter Sarah–and she and I together–had been through in the previous eighteen months, and the progress she had made, and the commitment we both have (still!) to her full recovery, Sarah had invited me to join her in getting a tattoo that she had designed, based on the logo for NEDA, the National Eating Disorders Association. 

In spite of my very real fear that the pain would be excruciating and I would not be able to keep myself from screaming, sobbing, passing out, or otherwise completely embarrassing myself, I immediately and unhesitatingly agreed. Truth be told, I felt honored by her invitation. 

I went first, since I knew that if I watched Sarah getting hers, I might very well bolt, never to return again, and I really did want to do this. The tattoo artist, Jordan, was a lovely young woman who, as it turned out, had grown up in Los Alamos. She had been doing tattoos for several years and, when she found out she would be giving me my first one, quickly and graciously put me at ease. 

When she was ready to start the actual tattooing, she told me she would do one small section and then check in with me to see how I was doing. I had, of course, shared my fear and dread with her! I told her I was ready, and looked away, looking instead at Sarah, who was sitting on the other side of me. She smiled at me, and I smiled back, putting on a brave face and bracing myself for the pain. And Jordan began. 

I waited for a moment as her tattoo pen whirred…and then I said, “That’s it??” And she smiled and said, “Yep.” And I, with a mixture of pride and profound relief, exclaimed, “I’ve had three babies! This is nothing!”

As she worked, Jordan chatted with Sarah and me, cheerfully answering the questions I asked her about growing up in Los Alamos, about other art she enjoys, about her work, etc. At one point, during a lull in the conversation, she asked me, “So what do you do?” 

I looked at Sarah, and we both laughed. And I looked back at Jordan and said, “I’m a pastor.” 

Jordan: “Really?!?!?” 

Me: “Really.” 

Jordan: “Wow! That’s cool!”

Sarah: “Have you ever tattooed a minister before?”

Jordan: “I’m pretty sure I have not! But that’s so cool! I’ll be able to brag to my friends about this!” Pause… “You’re definitely the coolest minister I’ve ever met.” 

And a very memorable shared experience. And I couldn’t help but wonder if Jordan might remember it, too. I wonder if she might remember it as a time when a minister-mom broke some stereotypes, leaving judgment at the door and offering acceptance instead, stepping away from condemnation and stepping into her world with curiosity, extending kindness and respect along with my arm. I wonder if maybe, through our interactions, Jordan heard, and experienced, something about the goodness of God in a language she could understand…. 

By the time we left, Sarah and I had these deeply meaningful tattoos: 

In what ways do those we encounter who are not part of the “church-going club” hear us speaking about God? Do we speak in “languages” they can readily understand? 

God, help us…Holy Spirit, come to us… Jesus, inspire us! Amen.

May peace, and the power of translation, be with us all.

Deb

Finding Our Way

by Rev. Lynne Hinton

She is a cartographer. She designs maps, develops software that creates maps; and she knows her way around every kind of topography there is. Whether it’s flat, empty terrains, wild jungle landscapes or urban city sites, streets lined with lookalike buildings, this woman can find her way. She has achieved advanced degrees, even wrote a dissertation on the subject; she manages cartography projects for a highly-specialized corporation. North from south, east to west, she can find any location and she can get others there. Only now something unexpected has happened to her, this maker of maps. For the first time in her life, she is lost.

Her husband has died and she is left with unexplored tracks, foreign to her. She has inherited the care of an aging family member, the parenting of their young adult child, and a new life marked by the dreaded designation, widow. She now must navigate mounds of paperwork, mountains of memories, rivers of dreams; and she must do it alone.

There is no question that she is smart, that she has excellent coping skills, and has acquired numerous resources to steer her through any crisis. She will even admit to knowing that this unchartered territory loomed before her as she figured out the future while sitting in doctors’ offices and waiting rooms. This expedition delivered no real surprising twists or turns. And yet, that’s the funny thing about grief, you can have a clear direction, you can draw or download readable maps as well as accumulate navigational tools in preparation for the journey of loss but still nothing really prepares you for the long road of bereavement and the unmarked path of being left alone.

I know that it is hard for everybody. No one, no matter how prepared or equipped a person might be, escapes the utter disorientation of death. No one finds a short cut or even a way around the loneliness, the sorrow, the despair.

Somehow, though it seems harder for her, this maker and keeper of maps. Somehow, the sadness looks more overwhelming, the despair yanking her further away from where X always marked the spot. Somehow, the loss has taken her to an even more remote, unknown location than the others I have met who were also dropped into this godforsaken place of grief.

“How do I get out of here?” she asks as we sit together in a grief support group, the desperation creeping in her voice. “How do I find my way out of this?” And the others sitting near her, the others also lost, those few who found their way to this gathering, know of nothing else to do but offer her their companionship.

“Here,” they seem to say, bearing no compass or reliable GPS manual, “Stand here with me or just sit and wait; there’s really nowhere else to go.” And I, the one they have come to seeking guidance, watch them, understanding that grief becomes the wilderness where we shall all, with or without a map, be left to wander.