Lenten Season for a migrant begins any second of the day, any day of the year. The death sentence is handed down immediately after one decides to uproot one’s self from the place of birth, get out of the comfort zone, to look for employment abroad. Migrant’s die knowing they have to leave their families behind. A mother cries realizing that the opportunity to stay with the kids every step of the way is taken away from her. Just the thought of separation kills her. A father’s heart is broken for fear of not being there when   he is needed most. In spite of the pain, parents carry their cross knowing it will bring them a better life, clinging on to their faith that God will not abandon them, believing in the promise of the Resurrection.

Walking the Way, treading the Path, living the Life of a Migrant is a whole new world. Being in a different environment, at times hostile, is no laughing matter. Working for and with people with different backgrounds and values entails a lot of flexibility and adaptability. There are a thousand and one stumbling blocks on the way. Some of them cause us to fall but no matter how heavy, no matter how painful, we get up, carry our cross again and continue the journey.

The Way of a Migrant is not all thorns and tears. Co-workers willing to share their time to listen to our heart aches, employers who give us a break from the rigors of the daily work, kababayans we meet at churches or in Filipino stores and restaurants who make us feel that we are not alone and the many countless and nameless instruments that God unceasingly sends us as instruments of hope are our Simon of Cyrenes, willing to help enlighten our load and at times even carry our cross.

We, too, have our Good Fridays. The height of our sufferings can come anytime. We feel the nails on our hands whenever we do not have enough money to send for the children’s school needs. We feel the nails on our feet when we cannot go home to attend our son’s graduation, or be there for our daughter’s birthday or celebrate our parent’s 50^th wedding anniversary. We feel the thorns on our head piercing every nerve of our body whenever we hear news that the kids are having problems. We gasp for breath each time somebody dies and we cannot even be there to pay our last respects. Hanging on the cross, weighed down by the never ending trials, we choose to die but not of physical death. We rest our struggles and sufferings in the hands of God. We leave everything to the healing power of the Saviour. We entrust our family to the tender, loving care of Our Mother. We choose to die and live again in the company of the Risen Christ.

A migrant’s cross is heavy but reassuring. A migrant’s thorns are piercing yet awakening. A migrant’s nails are sharp but comforting. We carry our cross not because we have no choice. We willingly take up our cross for the sake of our family. We are ready to offer our lives any time because our love knows no boundaries. Our threshold to pain is so high that every pain is a reward. Every heart ache is a guarantee. Every death is a renewed hope. Every beginning is a new life.