As part of a lay Catholic ministry, we traveled to Tijuana, Mexico every month. This story took place about twenty-five years ago.

Preparation

Each month we would get donations of 100-pound bags of beans and rice. This bulk product was sorted  and separated into three-pound bags to be handed out to the families. We collected candy for the children and on many occasions  we took-over-the counter medicine: aspirin, Pepto Bismol, cough syrup and whatever was donated. Sorting out clothing for families was usually; one outfit for a male, one for a female, and one child or infant per family. When winter rolled around we purchased blankets for the outreach.

The Fifteen-Decade Rosary

This was not a pleasure trip, so the head of our lay ministry always pulled out the world’s longest rosary. Yes, it was a 15-decade rosary. Sometimes I dreaded the ride; you could forget about napping because we all participated in the rosary. Today it takes me at least 20 to 25 minutes to pray a rosary, but a 15-decade rosary with intentions lasted all the way to McDonald’s in the border town of  Otay.

Border Crossing

We’d met at a local McDonald’s to plan our entrance into Tijuana. Traveling in large SUV’s and vans was a red flag for the border patrol. The briefing was simple: “We are taking some supplies to a ministry.” In most cases it was smooth sailing. Sometimes when one of the vehicles was flagged we all had to pull over until they received clearance. In this instance the local police would confiscate some of our supplies.

Tijuana

I had been to Tijuana on several occasions but only in the city limits. The farther we traveled into Tijuana, it was  an eye-opening experience. We drove  through many decent neighborhoods but where we ministered was off the grid. It was a village called Las Flores, but there were no flowers to be found. Trees were scarce there as well.   This area without plumbing – just dirt, loose, dusty dirt.  Our path led us to poorly put-together houses. I remember that many of these dwellings had discarded garage doors from the U.S. as outer walls. The living conditions were deplorable.

The people that we ministered to were faithful and grateful for the little that they had. Their winters were brutally cold and the summers intensely hot.

Christmas In January

The ministry was so busy in the month of December, we could not schedule a visit until late January. Some of the team members decided to wear Santa hats on that trip but personally I thought this was unwise. So did the border patrol officers when we were detained. The exchange lasted more than an hour, so we were delayed. We had so many new toys donated, blankets, food, candy, and clothing.

By the time we reached Las Flores it was around three in the afternoon. We sang praise songs, had a powerful teaching, and then we prayed for those who needed prayer. By the time we had given out all the supplies we brought, it was dark. The spirit of God was powerful. When it was time to pack up and leave, the man that I was driving with, unbeknownst to me, was planning to bring his  mother across the border. This woman had no legal documents but she did have a suitcase full of clothes.

The Crossing

We were in a Suburban SUV; I sat in the back seat behind the passenger seat, the mother of the man sat behind her son. He knew the law; if you bring an illegal immigrant, your vehicle will be confiscated. My thoughts were, “How in the heck did I get stuck riding back with this man? I’m going to get arrested!” Before we made it to the border, the man coached his mother on what to say. He tells her in Spanish, “You are going to pretend that you’re asleep, and if they ask you where you were born, say Colton.” Oh my dear Lord, the woman could not speak a lick of English, and saying Colton sounded more like Compton. Aside from not being able to communicate, she was the worse actress. I knew we were in trouble.

After questioning the driver, the border control officer flashed a light to the backseat. “Where were you born?” he asked me. I quickly answered, “Brawley.” Anyone with a brain could figure out that the woman was faking being asleep. The flashlight hit her face when he asked her the same question. Under my breath I kept repeating, “Please don’t say Compton!” She opened her eyes and said, “Compton.” We were asked to pull aside for further questioning. Rather than remaining calm, I wanted nothing to do with this illegal crossing. As we were detained, I talked to the man and his wife and told them that I wanted out of the vehicle. It was not that easy because first I had to answer several questions by the border patrol. I was not aware that the man was attempting to bring his mother over until the end of our ministry. After the interrogation, I was free to leave.

I had a cell phone and called my friend who was waiting for us at McDonald’s. I will never forget how dark it was that night and how I had to walk through a dark tunnel to cross over to the US. It was 11:00 p.m. by the time I reached McDonalds. As much as I wanted to stay calm, I was livid! I could not believe the danger this man put us through.

The Stupid Phone

On the drive home I could not stop talking about how careless these people were! Honestly, I must have lamented the entire way home. It seemed that the Lord had His hand on my dogging this couple because my phone was dialed to their number, and they heard the entire conversation. It was a lesson to all involved:  don’t gossip about others and for them don’t bring people across the border illegally. I had to apologize for all the nasty words that spewed out of  my mouth.

The Big  Miracle

The man’s mother was sent back, and how this man and his wife talked their way out of this situation was a miracle. Their vehicle was not confiscated, but they were not released until 2:00 a.m. It was a different time; today if you tried to bring someone across  the border illegally you would definitely  get arrested and we would probably be in jail.

My Prayer

Dear Lord, I pray for all those who are operating in fear because of ICE. Lord, You are in control of everything,  so we trust in You. In this perplexed world, we need Your direction. May we all be in one accord in pleading for peace in this matter. Amen.

Mario will finally be released from prison on July 28, 2025.

The Demonic Assignments

This month has been challenging, to say the least. After much reflection, everything finally came into focus — and with it, an understanding of why the attacks have been so frequent. Ministering the Word of God is my calling, and so I have been using social media as a means to reach the masses. The Holy Spirit has been most accommodating, guiding the words that pass through my lips. But guess who hates this work? Satan. He and his minions are ever-present, and they have assignments against people like me — those who are committed to bringing light into a dark world.

The Appointments

For three weeks, I have been attempting to schedule an appointment to visit Mario. All year long, this had been a seamless process — but suddenly, the system began freezing, and I was unable to complete it. Multiple attempts to reset my password proved futile. In frustration, I called the prison and explained the situation, only to be told that the matter needed to be escalated to Sacramento. The response from the facility was dismissive: “Try again in about an hour, or maybe tomorrow. It should be working.” It never did — so the only option left was to visit as a walk-in.

Getting Out is another means of communication. Through this app, it is possible to send text messages and videos to Mario, as well as schedule appointments. Despite being well-acquainted with the platform, every attempt to make an appointment was met with the same response — a message in large, bold, red letters: MARIO ******* BLOCKED. When a call was made to seek assistance, the response was about as warm as one extended to an unwanted telemarketer.

The Spectrum Account

The goal was to leave no later than 10:30 a.m. Mike was in the process of making changes to the Spectrum account — but since the account is under my name, the call had to be made personally. The service was being cancelled due to outrageous price increases. What seemed like a ten-minute task stretched into forty-five. Now the departure time was closer to eleven, and frustration was mounting.

In haste, “California Rehabilitation Center” was entered into the GPS, and the drive began. About ten minutes in came the realization: the money for the visit had been left behind. Turning around added another twenty minutes to the delay. By the time the car door closed again, the GPS showed an estimated arrival time of 11:55 a.m.

The system does not make allowances for late arrivals — that much was certain. It felt like yet another attack. So there was only one thing left to do.

Pray.

Two Choices

On the last visit, Mario expressed concern — he was uncertain whether he had been cleared for parole to Arizona. As he put it, “Sometimes, it’s not until a few weeks from our release date that we find out if we can get paroled out of state.” Even so, the uncertainty did little to dampen his excitement. After all, he only had a few more months left.

Then, on June 26th, Mario’s sister received a call — and with it, the news: he had been granted permission to parole to Arizona and reunite with his family.

Two weeks before that call, Mario had reached out seeking advice. He had been contacted by a faith-based Christian organization — privately funded, dedicated to helping inmates transition into their new lives. It is a sober-living environment that accepts residents by referral only, and Mario came highly recommended by the prison itself.

The matter requiring attention was a DUI from the early 1990s — an outstanding issue standing between Mario and a valid driver’s license. This organization had the resources and connections to help facilitate exactly that kind of resolution.

The only counsel offered to Mario was simple: pray, and ask God for direction.

Mario’s Decision

Mario will turn 50 in November. The program offers a six-month stay, along with practical support in finding employment — a meaningful foundation for someone stepping back into the world after years inside.

After praying about which direction to take, Mario made his decision. The confirmation came in an unexpected but unmistakable way: the pastor from the organization called him, and at the end of their conversation, he prayed over Mario. For Mario, that prayer settled it.

The Routine

During the visit, the heartbreak his family felt over his decision was shared with him directly. The words were candid: “Mario, keep this in the back of your head — this is your last hope for freedom. You cannot mess this up.”

He didn’t flinch. “Tia, I have it in the front of my head.”

Mario went on to explain his intention: to protect and maintain the routine that has sustained him — reading Scripture, serving God, continuing his AA work, and learning how to reenter a complicated world. Inner Vision offers regular Bible studies, and that consistency matters deeply to him. More than anything, Mario felt he needed this season of structured transition before stepping fully into life outside.

And then there is Buttercup — a beautiful golden retriever puppy he has been helping train as a service dog. She remains at his side. Mario described her simply, and without hesitation, as his best friend.

The Visit

Frazzled as the arrival was, by the time the food was finally gathered, Mario could be seen coming down the hall. Being the last visitor in, with slim pickings for seating, the guard was asked for a table in the shade.

Together, we read from Matthew 10:26–42, pausing at every verse to go deeper into its meaning. This passage, titled “Courage Under Persecution,” opens with a call not to be afraid, and the reminder that “nothing is concealed that will not be revealed.” It continues with the assurance that God knows even the fall of a sparrow — and that every hair on our heads is counted, so we need not be afraid. It closes with the promise that whoever receives a disciple receives Christ himself — and that even a cup of cold water given in His name will not go unrewarded.

Landing on this chapter was a happy accident — what had been intended was Matthew 7:21–29, but the verse reference had slipped away in the moment. What was found instead was precisely what was needed.

My Prayer

Lord, You know Your son Mario and all the suffering he has endured. I beg You, Lord, to bless him and continue to pave a safe passage for him when he gets out. I pray that Mario would excel in this program and ease into finding employment. Lord, nothing is impossible with You. Grant Your son Mario the special graces he needs to get by.

Amen.

This is the story of a remarkable woman — a dear friend named Lan.

Lan

Lan was born in Hà Nội, North Vietnam. She is now 75 years old. When she was five, her family fled south to escape the grip of communism — a decision that would shape the entire course of her life.

Her husband was already serving in the army when they married. By the time North Vietnam invaded the South, the couple had two daughters. Her husband was captured and taken to what the communist regime called a re-education camp — though in truth, it was a concentration camp in every meaningful sense. Families were told the detainment would last eight days. He would not be released for six years.

During that time, South Vietnamese soldiers held in these camps were subjected to indoctrination — forced to sing songs of worship and tribute to Hồ Chí Minh.

Visits were not open. They were scheduled. Lan’s husband would write to inform her when she was permitted to make the journey.

The Visits

To reach her husband, Lan and a group of other wives would board a bus and travel eighteen hours to the edge of a jungle. There, they hired motorcyclists to carry them deeper into the forest. At a certain point, even those guides would go no further — the fear of communist soldiers was too great. From there, Lan and the other wives carried their supplies the rest of the way themselves.

By the time she finally reached her husband, a day and a half had passed since she left home.

The Meeting

The visiting room held a long table — perhaps eight feet across. When her husband was brought out, the distance between them allowed only the reaching of hands. A communist guard stood watch over the entire conversation. After fifteen minutes, the visit was over.

As desperately as Lan wanted to cry, she had been warned against it. If any of the wives wept, the men would be punished with more intense labor. So she held it in.

Homecoming

There was no announcement. No formal notice. One day, after six years in the re-education camp, her husband simply came home. He was required to report to the local police once a week.

The Exodus

Leaving a communist country required an underground network — secrecy, risk, and the willingness to pay dearly for the chance at freedom. In Lan’s case, the currency was gold — specifically, gold leaves, a form of payment used in that time and place. The price was three gold leaves per person.

By then, Lan and her husband had welcomed a third child — a son, still a newborn. They paid the price and they prayed. Then they waited. A full year passed before word came that their passage out of Vietnam was available.

Lan’s daughters were eight and six years old when the family departed. But their newborn son could not come. The journey was too dangerous — those who fled communist Vietnam became known as “the boat people,” and the passage carried enormous risk. The fear was real and specific: an infant’s cry could betray them all. The baby stayed behind, left in the care of Lan’s parents.

The Boat

They boarded a bus and were transported to the shore. There, a tiny fishing boat — loaded with fifty people — set out onto the dark waters of the South China Sea.

It was not long before a devastating discovery was made: the compass was broken. With no instruments to guide them, they turned to the night sky, navigating by the North Star.

By the fifth day, the boat was sinking. The men worked through the night, bailing water with everything they had — but it was not enough. By seven o’clock in the morning, they were exhausted, their strength spent. There was nothing left to give.

And so, together — Catholics and Buddhists alike — they prayed. They prayed for their souls. They prepared to die.

Then, a young man on the boat spotted something — a small speck against the sky. An airplane. Desperate, they tried to start a fire to signal it, but everything on the boat was soaked. It seemed the last chance was slipping away — until the captain’s wife remembered she had a mirror. They caught the light and flashed it toward the sky.

Two soldiers reached the sinking boat by dinghy and asked if they needed help. They were rescued — women and children first, then the men.

From Sea to Shore

The USS Bainbridge transported them to a refugee camp in Singapore. What followed was neither quick nor simple. To gain approval for residency in the United States, Lan and her family were scrutinized before a Singaporean judge. Under penalty of perjury, they were required to swear that every piece of information they had provided was true — a grueling process in every sense of the word. They were also interviewed by U.S. officers and were ultimately sponsored by a Catholic organization and the UNHCR — the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees — an organization that has spent more than seventy years working to protect and advocate for people forced to flee war, persecution, and violence.

Lan and her family remained in Singapore for three months, preparing for the life ahead. The next five months were spent in the Philippines, where a series of orientation programs helped them acclimate to what life in the United States would require of them.

The Payback

Lan and her family signed loan documents to cover the cost of their airline tickets to the United States — a debt they fully intended to repay.

As legal refugees, they received assistance through a government program: a stipend of five hundred dollars a month, plus food stamps, for a maximum of eighteen months. Lan’s family was out of the program in thirteen — because her husband found employment. He took the graveyard shift so he could send money back home, working steadily toward the goal of bringing their son to the United States.

Though Lan had three years of law school and an accounting degree, the language barrier closed every door she tried to open. Unable to find work in her trained field, she took out a loan and became a cosmetologist. She worked in that profession for three years — and then felt something stronger pulling at her. A calling to social services. For twenty-three years, she served the Social Services Agency of Orange County, giving back to people in need.

Lan and her husband paid back every penny of those airline tickets. Five years after their arrival, she and her family became American citizens.