By Marv Knox 

Immigrant children dominate my memory.

Fellowship Southwest’s immigrant relief ministry operates shelters and feeding programs along the U.S.-Mexico border. I’ve met hundreds of refugees—mostly from Central America, but also from South America, the Caribbean and even Africa—in Mexican cities from the Pacific Ocean to the Gulf of Mexico.

Their parents tell their families’ stories—why they fled home in hope of better, safer lives here in the United States. They talk about organized crime and government corruption—murder, rape, torture and extortion—as well as economic collapse, hunger and crushing poverty. Their stories echo in my mind, especially at night.

But images of the children dominate my memory.

The first immigrant kiddos I met played between pup tents in a cavernous former dancehall in Tijuana. Amidst chaos and worry, they found each other. And played.

In a courtyard in Juarez, where volunteers delivered a Christmas fiesta, children giggled and danced, their adorable faces shining.

In Nuevo Laredo, they swarmed in front of a safehouse on a dangerous street, thrilled to be let outdoors under close supervision, if only for a photo.

In Matamoros, they sat in a row on a curb beside the massive tent camp on the banks of the Rio Grande. I see them eating snacks and laughing with members of a nearby church, who delivered the food.

But little sisters in Piedras Negras appear most often, crawling between their parents’ legs. Their mother recounted how gang members murdered their grandfather. The young family left that very night, seeking someplace safer. Their father described the achingly slow asylum process, acknowledging desperation. He admitted he had begun to think about crossing the border illegally, swimming the Rio Grande with his daughters on his back.

Those little girls remind me of my granddaughters their age. I remember their faces and wonder if they’re still alive.

Refugee children also remind me of Jesus. When he was little, his parents fled Palestine for Egypt, fearing for his life. He was an immigrant, too. 

I wonder how much Jesus remembered about his immigrant years. Did his family’s own insecurity, their dependence upon the kindness of strangers, shape how he preached and taught? Was he thinking about their vulnerability when he compared how his followers treat “the least of these” exactly with how they treat him? 

This Holy Week, we focus on the other end of Jesus’ earthly life. We remember our Savior, whose crucifixion we mourn and whose resurrection we share. The continuity of his solitary, perfect life connects his journey as an immigrant to his journey to the cross. His parents carried the immigrant child away to save his life; he willfully carried his cross to Calvary to save our lives. 

Immigrants on the border, as well as immigrants in your community and mine, are not the Savior. Yet they share the divine stamp of his image. More than those of us whose lives are easier and more secure, they shadow his journey. 

This week, we recall Jesus’ final journey of agony and deep sorrow. Despite the horror of Good Friday, it ended in victory because he defeated death. Jesus’ journey out of the grave on Easter morning infused the world with hope. 

Today’s immigrants’ journeys begin in agony and sorrow. We walk alongside them as we provide food and shelter, as we make transportation available, as we encourage sponsorship as they await the asylum process. If we treat them with the love and care we aspire to lavish upon Jesus, we join the living Christ in shining hope into their lives and upon their paths.

Marv Knox is coordinator of Fellowship Southwest.