In God's House

When I woke up this morning, I didn't know I would be invited into God’s house.  My plan for the day was to work on my novel after walking the dogs, taking an exercise class, eating lunch, and working with my horse.  It was 8:00 pm when I sat down at the computer, but the book would have to wait a bit longer.  I had something more important to write down.

It was about 2:00 pm when I arrived at the barn.  Before fetching Toby, my horse, from the pasture, I retrieved his saddle, pads, and bridle from the tack room; pulled my grooming kit and his leg wraps out of my tack trunk, and put two horse treats into my jacket pocket.  Despite an unseasonable chill, the day was beautiful and I was looking forward to a fast gallop in the jump field.

Footsteps in the apartment above the barn told me that the owners were home, and perhaps had company.  As I was about to head out to the pasture, a parade of people emerged from the apartment and I said, “Looks like you’re having a party!”

The group included Katie and Paul, the farm’s owners; their adult daughter, Alison; Francisco, their farm manager; Emilio, Francisco’s brother-in-law; Lara, an immigration attorney; and Jim, her husband.  Katie said, “We’re going to the chapel, would you like to come?”

The eight of us piled into two four-wheelers and bounced and bumped our way to a secret place which Katie had shown me a few weeks back.  On that occasion, she had told me about the loss of a grandson, a baby, born severely disabled whose life had brought their entire family closer together.  During the time leading to the baby’s death, Katie had expressed a wish to find a place on the farm where she could go and pray.  Francisco overheard this and, in his spare time across several weeks, created a chapel nestled in a narrow and protected clearing.  First, he constructed a cross out of rough hewn boards.  Next, by carefully spacing and balancing bricks from the ruins of an old house that had once stood on the property, Francisco created a porous, semi-circular wall around the cross.  In the center, he left an opening where he placed a triangular piece of wood on which he had written the baby’s name.  Finally, he built six benches from pieces of wood and small logs he had found while tending the 80-acre property.  One day when Katie was especially distressed about her sick grandson, Francisco asked her to ride out into the back pastures with him.  He took her by the hand into a thicket and there it was: a peaceful and private place to pray.  They sat a while. She cried and he comforted her.  Not long after, the little boy died and this is where the family gathered to give thanks for his short life which had given them so much.

I met this family several months ago when my husband and I were planning our move to north Georgia.  I needed to find a place to bring my horse and this farm was the answer to my prayers.  Not only was the place beautiful and well maintained, the people were as warm and thoughtful as they could be.  When Toby moved in five months ago, I had to pinch myself to make sure I wasn't dreaming.  After years of less than perfect stabling arrangements, I could not believe my good fortune that there was a stall available at this beautiful farm owned by such lovely people. 

The farm was so perfect that Toby settled in much faster than I had anticipated and we were soon enjoying the facilities as well as the back country obstacle field.  On my birthday, we all hacked to the farm next door to participate in a horse show.  I was in heaven. 

Heaven is a fragile thing, however.  The next morning when I arrived at the barn, everyone was in a frenzy.  Francisco had been picked up by Immigration Control Enforcement and was in jail awaiting deportation.  Katie and Paul learned of his arrest when Francisco’s wife called them in the early morning, weeping hysterically.  There were thirty horses to feed, fifteen to turn out, stalls to muck, and water buckets and troughs to clean and fill. The enormity of Francisco’s role on the farm came into painfully clear focus as the owners struggled to do his job.  Even worse was the grief over having this sweet and loving man ripped from their lives.

Katie, Paul, Alison and her husband could have shaken their heads and cursed the government, but instead they worked the phones until they found one of the most influential immigration attorneys practicing in the United States.  “Whatever it takes,” they told her, “we will do to get Francisco back.  Not only do we need and love him, his wife and three children depend on him.”  I do not know how much this family spent out of pocket to pay Lara the attorney, to support Francisco’s family, and to pay the salaries of the several people who attempted to do the work this one man had done so efficiently.  It was more than most people earn in two years, a lot more.  He was family, his family was family, and his arrest was a great injustice and a painful example of what is wrong with America’s confused immigration policies.

In August, family asked me if I would be willing to attend a hearing at the Atlanta Immigration Court. The judge had a smug attitude and made a few vaguely sexist remarks to Francisco’s attorney. The attorney asked the judge to approve a bond hearing for Francisco.  After making a show of developing a rapport with our group, the judge decided to adjourn for two weeks. 

During the two hours we were in the courtroom, Francisco was brought into a waiting room so we could visit him via a television screen.  He was wearing an orange prison jumpsuit, no shoes, and his hands were cuffed.  Katie and Alison broke down in tears, as did Francisco when they spoke to him through a microphone.  This whole situation affected me deeply, and I wanted desperately to help.  The only thing I could think of to do was to write to a US senator who happens to know my husband’s family quite well.  It wasn't much, but the family appreciated it. 

For reasons we will never know, the second part of the hearing was canceled and the case was transferred to another judge.  Eventually, a bond hearing was scheduled and we all made the trek back to Atlanta.  Katie and Paul pledged a $50,000 bond to secure Francisco’s release.  The attorney for the Justice Department had no objection and the judge granted the request.  We were all crying and hugging each other.  Francisco’s wife was there and we all hugged her.  Three days later, Francisco was home and the barn, once more, felt like heaven. 

True friendships happen over shared values and experiences.  Katie and I have become close as a result of Francisco’s imprisonment, so when she asked if I would like to join the group at the chapel, I happily said yes.

The four-wheelers went silent and the eight of us entered the narrow opening to the hidden chapel.  It is a deeply silent and still place where birds sing and leaves rustle in the breeze.  We all sat and I felt a warm presence envelop me. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath in.  Paul said a prayer of thanks to God for returning Francisco, for Lara’s help, for family, and friendship.  The tears began leaking from my eyes.  Francisco expressed his deep gratitude to everyone for helping him and his family during his three months in jail.  Katie spoke of the beauty and serenity of the chapel that Francisco had made for her, and a leaf fell on her head.  “It’s a sign,” I said.

Copyright 2014 Teresa Friedlander all rights reserved