I have spent a portion of these cool Nogales'mornings on my knees. There is something primally satisfying about washing the feet of another, Lenten allusions aside. It is an act of intimacy that largely transcends language, a good thing in my case since I speak a paucity of Spanish. From the vantage point of the concrete floor in 'la clinical' across from the comedor, words don't matter all that much. It becomes more about touch and reassurance and searching for what the eyes reveal.` Sometimes there has been anxiety, always, behind it, courage.

There was the young girl, eight years old, who stopped in yesterday morning with her teenaged brother. They were concerned about cactus needles embedded in their palms from crawling through the desert the day before. As we soaked their hands and searched, the little girl laughed and glanced at her brother, busy excavating foreign matter from his palms. They were considering trying to cross again this week. After them, a young man with blurred vision and mild agitation descibed his childhood asthma. He used an inhaler but had left it behind in Honduras. He, too, was getting ready to cross. We found an inhaler, pressed it into his cool hand, told him his heart and 'pressure' were strong but to be careful. And then there are all those who attempted the passage, only to be returned to this, the place of beginnings and endings. Their feet convey the inexpressible cost of the journey. Some are bloodied and blistered, some caked with flaking skin. Creeping fungus is a common complaint. And so we soak the feet, my nursing colleague, Bill, and I. We wash and apply ointments and we bandage and wrap. We offer Tylenol for mild pain, Ibuprofen when it is more severe. And we wish safe journey, wherever their travels may take them.

Privilege has been a them which has dominated this Spring break work with No More Deaths. In our orientation in Tucson, and before that in our pre-departure talks in Chicago, we have discussed the concept of privilege, how it operates within our own lives, how it oppresses others in ways both obvious and subtle. And I know that this is an important concern which requires vigilance. And yet. . . my years of hospice nursing have taught me that truly, in the end, privilege is relative. As one approaches the end of one's life, the trappings of status and wealth and access matter little; in fact, they are often encumberances which burden the traveler. Often it is those who have traveled lightly through this world, fortified by what truly matters, who make the final transition with grace and ease. That is not, of course, to romanticize poverty, to gloss over injustice. We must continue to witness and to speak out against oppression as we encounter it in its many guises. But we must not lose sight of the lessons to be gleaned while kneeling at the feet of another.

We might have arrived in Nogales with trappings of privilege but we leave having shed so much of that. What I have gained, and I know I am not alone, is an enhanced sense of gratitude. How could it be otherwise? Our experience in Nogales has been awash with thankfulness-- from the weary diners in the comedor who stand to pray before eating their steaming breakfast assembled before the mural of the migrant Last Supper, to the visitors who come to the the clinic and clutch their baggies of Tylenol, shaking our hands with sincerity, to all of us-- Colin, Moira, Kate, Zina, Tim, Bill, Brenda, David and I-- who have intersected during this Lenten season in the desert, sharing the work and the apple crisp and the edgy border crossings. How will the planes take off, the car doors close, so laden are we by the gratitude we carry home?

As we prepare to leave,, I look forward to hearing of the experiences of those desert dwellers with whom we will reunite tomorrow. In turn, I will share what I can of what I discovered as I put my hand to water and reached for the foot of one who is a stranger no more. Pilgrims all,, we depart united by all we have learned from our fellow and sister travelers.