Photo by Pilar Azaña

By Eun Joo Angela Ryo

I work at a youth residential detention facility with undocumented unaccompanied minors. They are boys under the age of 18, mostly from Guatemala, Honduras, and El Salvador, who have been detained at the border as they try to enter the United States without proper documents. Some have been drug or sex trafficked but most of them cross on their own hoping to be reunited with their parents or relatives. My boys are always waiting. Waiting to eat, waiting to go to the bathroom, waiting to watch a movie—but most of all, they are waiting to go home to be with their families in America. Waiting. The word “to wait” in Spanish, I have learned, is “esperar,” which is the same word for “to hope.” In Spanish, to wait is to hope. These boys eagerly wait or hope for that time when they can get out of our facility.

But what’s heart-breaking is knowing that once they get out, they have an uphill battle ahead. They will reunite with their family—okay. But then what? What they don’t know is that almost every one of them will be sent back—that is if they comply with the law and go to court and do what they are told to do. Their removal proceedings have already begun.

But knowing what lies ahead of them, I still dream crazy dreams for them. I hope for them and I hope with them. I teach them English as if they will remain here forever. My heart breaks for them. To these teenagers who have gone through the desert to find their moms and dads, I want to tell them that the experiences they have now is their life—not just a phase they have to go through to get to something better. Their experiences of being desperate, their experiences of going through the desert, their struggles, missing their family — those are what make them them. Regardless of whether they stay or not, I want them to grow into themselves. But they continue to wait by the pool called America, thinking that staying in America will solve all their problems. Just like the invalid in John 5 who has waited 38 years by the pool called Bethseda — waiting for the pool to stir, waiting for someone to help him to the pool once it stirs…

And that made me think about my own life. I’m waiting by this pool called ministry or a dream job, thinking that if I can only have this or that, only if I can jump into the pool of “perfect family,” maybe I can achieve the American Dream — I already have my two kids; all I need is a white picket fence, trade in our guinea pigs for a dog…and maybe get a nicer minivan! And to a waiting person like me, Jesus comes and asks, “Do you want to get well?” I tell him, “I can’t because I don’t have anyone to help me to jump into the pool of being a perfect mom, perfect pastor, perfect daughter, perfect teacher — all of the things I was taught I should be in my perfect immigrant family.” Jesus says, “Pick up your mat of broken dreams, your helplessness, and walk — walk with me. This is your life now. Stop waiting and live it.” The Spirit of God tells me, “Stop playing the waiting game and start waiting on me; hope in me as you live your life and become the person you were created to be — with your wounds and scars and all.”

While I wait for God, God waits for me. While I am waiting for a miracle, God is waiting to perform miracles through me. While I am waiting to be loved, God is waiting to love through me. In this mutuality of hope, I am given the power and strength to act because God deems me worthy of hope.