I've got my hands up high, my feet down low...

Time lapse of the Migrant Resource Center, a story captured in moments.

Last Night- While trying to pour himself a cup of coffee a young man accidentally spilled the not-quite-hot-yet liquid all over his hand, where it dripped off to form a pool on the plastic table. I was heating up some burritos for his 25 companions just steps away. Seeing the coffee streaming off the table and onto the floor I began to laugh.

Turning to me the man said, in perfect English, "Do you think that's funny?"
"Yes," I replied, my laughter having sprung forth not from his misfortune, but from a deep well of appreciation for a coffee machine that defies logic in its dispensation of the aforementioned liquid.
"Well I don't think that's funny," he cut back, the tension rising in his voice.
"Lo siento, I'm sorry," I said, in the best accent I could muster. "Friends?"

My plea for peace went unanswered. Rebuffed. Setting down the cup, he turned his back and walked out the door into the April night.

Last Week- I arrived at the Center totally spent, bankrupt in every conceivable way. It soon became apparent that I wasn't going to be much good for conversation, less so in Spanish. Leaving my friends sitting at the desk I headed to the front door, setting up a post to await the "customers" that would undoubtedly pass by. My fatigue defeated my attempts at reading, and I soon found myself "waiting" under a blanket, flat on my back. From there I migrated over to a cot, a little metal bed that's tucked away in the space that used to house Viagra and Cialis back when the Center was a pharmacy for snowbirds in search of a deal. Three hours later I woke up. A more honest telling of the story would be that I was awoken. I had slept through the coffee, the burritos, the jokes, and all of the night's migrants.

Two weeks ago- My friend James and I sat behind the desk, fighting off the sleep that wooed us back towards pillows and sheets. Public policy, migration, education, and old times weighed heavily on our minds and spilled freely from our lips. Migrants passed by the open doors to the Center. I let them go, knowing only too well how few resources we had to give them. Sometimes it's better to save the burritos for the person hungry enough to come searching for them.

Three weeks ago- I was sitting at my desk, chatting up (I was hoping) the leader of a group of high school kids. Five migrants had come in about thirty minutes before, a group of cousins traveling together, all under the age of 17. All of a sudden I realized that both the visiting students and the migrants were standing in a big circle in the space by the door. Unexpectedly, the entire group burst into song. One by one the students stepped forward into the circle, each one in their turn taking up the mantle to cut the proverbial rug. An impromptu dance party. At first it was clear that the migrants had no idea what was going on, and even less idea of what they should do. But the mood was infectious. They started dancing. I started dancing. Everyone was singing. Before you knew it there were two lines and we had broken into a soul train. And just then it dawned on me: this is why I have come to the border. This is what the kingdom of God looks like. No border. No fence. No desert. Just some teenage kids and a dance party. And who doesn't love that?