On November 10, 2025, I bore witness to our brother Raul being taken in for an “interview” while at his routine ICE check-in for his and his wife’s immigration process. Minutes later, an official walked out alone to hand his wife a clear bag with Raul’s belongings, then turned to leave without a word.
I bore witness to their lawyer’s repeated pleadings against detention and the official’s reply: “We detained someone last week with a brain tumor. Does that tell you anything? Which do you think is worse?” The lawyer pleaded that Raul be allowed to say goodbye to Lilian and to his children, who were waiting outside with church family, too afraid to come in. With the stern shaking of his head, the official said, “I have no discretion. These are the orders of President Trump.”
As we walked to the car, I bore witness to the boys’ eyes frantically searching us for their dad and noticing Lilian’s tears, and the sudden fall of knowledge. There are no words for the dismay. I bore witness to the weeping huddle of a mother and her two boys and her baby girl, her shaking voice comforting them: “Está bien, estaremos juntos, donde sea.”
In the following hours and days, I bore witness to the shock of forced separation and the toll of trauma on the body – no appetite, repeated headaches and lack of focus, and the dread of every panicked, sleepless night. A mother grieving and yet problem solving 756273 things at once – comforting her devastated tweens, encouraging them to eat and go to school, answering a flood of texts, calling Raul’s worried parents, speaking with senators’ offices, navigating legal steps, and trying to talk with Raul on brief recorded calls while putting her baby down for a nap. In her I saw fortitude and faith: rising each day to face ever-shifting legal mountains, scary uncertainties, deep grief and a new loneliness – and still daring hope. I bore witness to courage.
I bore witness to our church rising in love and service, to the beauty of vulnerability met with tenderness. At prayer meetings, we bore witness to each other’s tears, faith, doubts, righteous anger, and tired hopes – and to God meeting us in our grief. I bore witness to partners and networks standing with us in prayer, advocacy, and generosity. I bore witness to the power of timely legal advocacy and the compounding protection of God – including an 8:45 p.m. habeas petition and a 10:33 p.m. judge response: stay of removal. We later learned they attempted to send Raul to Louisiana that first evening, but the court order held. They taunted Raul, but could not move him. And so, on the floor he stayed. In the habeas petition and in so many ways, we bore witness to God listening to the cries of his people.
I bore witness to Raul rising instead of falling – walking with purpose to care for those in detention, sleeping on the floor in a windowless room with harsh lights on 24/7, no clocks, no showers, and an open toilet in the center. He befriended the men with him – many with no criminal record, some green card holders, even one who had already won his asylum case. He listened to their stories and their despair; he prayed for them and spoke to them about the God who is with us even in the darkest places. I bore witness to the shackles of shame falling off Raul as he rose in the authority of love, caring for the most vulnerable. He preached multiple times, proclaiming Christ who is no stranger to suffering – in his call to faith, over two dozen men said yes to follow Jesus. He taught worship songs of God’s care and rest – their cell would sing to God late into the night, a jail cell reverberating with praise.
I bore witness to God’s presence with us. The palpable grief of separation at Sunday worship. The toddler who kept asking, “What was that zooming around over us while we were singing?” Angels ministering as we wept and clung to Christ. Dreams of Raul free being spoken with faith. No guarantees, yet a stubborn hope that God would be with us. Whole-bodied singing: “Tu fidelidad es grande… Grande es tu fidelidad.” Great is your faithfulness.
I bore witness to legal miracles that left incredible lawyers in awe, and to a bond hearing with a disrespectful DHS lawyer repeatedly corrected by a steady, fair, firm judge (an Asian woman I want to be like when I grow up). I bore witness to multiple cases pleading for bond, to self-deportations, and to the odd way the system calls image-bearers by numbers, rather than by name.
I bore witness to Raul wearing prison garb but holding his head high. I bore witness to bond granted, and the flood of relief. Bond paid at 9am, waiting all day for him to walk out of the building “sometime between 4 and 6 pm” – the longest day. To the joy of release and the sorrow that it happened at all. Wordless weeping among brothers on the ride home – shared heartbreak and relief that needs no translation. Finally, home.
His family coming out: Sofia running to him, Raul kneeling on the sidewalk. Grief and thankfulness. Learning to be together again after trauma. Despacio, despacio. Walk. Breathe. Eat. Play chess. Pray. Sleep. Answer calls from brothers still inside. Advocate for their release. Play soccer. Find a new rhythm of grace.
I bore witness to the miracles of God working within a system but against its injustice – against the horrors of mandatory detention and forced family separation, designed to weaken and drain hope. Instead I bore witness to the opposite: a humble, righteous man with years of steady spiritual formation, rising in faith and authority. He knew who he was, obedient to the call to bring light to a place of deep darkness.
There is no place God cannot go. There is nothing God cannot do.
This Christian faith is not empty “thoughts and prayers.” Our faith is intended to show up in real life, to confront injustice that stands in open rebellion against God. Isaiah 58 says that true faith loses chains of injustice, unties the cords of the yoke, sets the oppressed free, and breaks every yoke…to provide the poor wanderer with shelter, when you see the naked to clothe them, and not to turn away from your own flesh and blood.
Turning away dehumanizes us. It may feel safer, but it is a false comfort that leads us away from the very place Christ dwells.
As the Rev. Dr. Alexia Salvatierra reminded me: “You and your church have the privilege of walking with God and his people in the ongoing anguish of injustice. It is a privilege.” Because when we draw near to the vulnerable, there is God. “Then your light will break forth like the dawn, and your healing will quickly appear; then your righteousness will go before you, and the glory of the Lord will be your rear guard.” I am bearing witness to this – to the horrors of injustice and to the power and mercy of our God. And I have never been more honored.
On the day of his release, our toddler Kai asked, “Did Tío get freed from the fortress?” “Yes, Kai.” Then he asked, “Did the bad laws break?” And we paused. By “bad laws,” he means the laws that jail people who have done nothing wrong – people who are simply following the immigration process our nation requires. And we had to say, not yet. But we continue to pray and advocate and wait in hope so one day soon we can say, “Yes, honey, the bad laws broke.” May your kingdom come on earth as it is in heaven.
