“What it is — is what else it is,” wrote poet Lia Purpura in the context of time, and how certain scenes from the present can bring to mind scenes from the past.

For example, I walked with the dogs at the Montague Farm today, and as I went up the road to the top of the hill leading to the woods, I saw that much of the hill’s tall grass and thick shrubs had been cleared, making way for new paths and even a couple of circles and ringlets. They seemed familiar, and then I remembered that Bernie’s vision for the Farm, when it was owned by Zen Peacemakers, was to create waystations up and on top of the slope that resembled these, dedicated to various religious traditions, peacemakers he admired, and the arts (including a small amphitheater).

Here it is, I thought to myself, created by a new generation of folks who mainly use the space for weddings. We look at one scene in the present, and see other scenes from the past.

But I thought of Lia Purpura’s words in another context:

Each month someone gives our home a thorough cleaning, I’ll call her Anna, which is not her real name because she has no legal papers. Twenty years ago, she came here with her husband. They have 2 children here and one was left behind in Ecuador, where gangs and drug cartels continue to destroy social structures, villages, and entire communities. Like many other people from that country that I have met here, they had no way of surviving back home. “People there get $7 or $10 for work all day, they cannot live like that,” she tells me.

Her husband and son have worked in farming and construction, and she is a domestic worker. They’ve paid taxes all this time. I asked her about her fears, and she tried to be strong. They follow very anxiously what is happening in Chicago and Washington, D. C. (where, I’m told, ICE hovers right outside schools). They keep their heads low and go to work every day, trying to remain invisible. “We wait and we wait and we wait,” she said to me.

They send money to the married daughter back in Ecuador because they know the couple can’t make a living. A small digression here: I’m always amazed by how much money immigrants save, not for new cars or vacations, but for sending the families back home. So many of us commiserate about not affording this or that, while they save every penny they can to send to others out of wages that we consider very low. Anna’s sister works at two physically demanding jobs in order to support her three daughters. Anna’s sister is 39; I’ve seen her, she looks 20 years older.

As we talked some more, Anna’s fortitude began to crumble, and soon she was weeping. “If they deport me, then it’s okay, but what will happen to my children? I am afraid for my children. My young daughter, she is 9 years old. What will happen to her?”

People have organized WhatsApp groups to notify about the presence of ICE agents and possible arrests; my house is on a list in case certain families are afraid to go home and need a place to live. But I don’t kid myself. Even as we try to support them, they could well lose jobs and homes they’ve labored hard for, and be sent back to—what?

I said what I said and made comforting noises, even as my insides were sinking. And then Anna said: “You know, Eve, it is not easy for me to get a job. You (in the plural) open not just your houses but also your hearts to me, you don’t worry about me or if you are safe with me, you just open your house, and that is so beautiful.”

I open my house so that she could vacuum and give the floor a good polish, wash tub and shower and underneath dog food bowls. We talk a little, I make her coffee and write her a check, and her gratitude is sky-high.

I am not in Anna’s shoes; I do not feel her fear; I do not feel her terror. Lack of food, shelter, and safety does not besiege me, so I am sensitive about invoking spiritual teachings here (though when I heard her words about how they wait and wait, I thought of my mother and her family hiding and waiting in someone’s cellar back in Czechoslovakia 80 years ago).

But it was in the context of Anna’s last words to me about opening my home to her that I remembered the poet’s words: “What it is—is what else it is.” I believe it was St. John of the Cross who wrote:

What is Grace I asked God

and he said:

All that happens.