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The Cries of the Children

“Child abuse casts a shadow the length of a lifetime.” Hebert Ward

Imagine you knew Gabby. A bouncy six-year-old who lives with her mother next door. You remember when she was born, at home, as there was no insurance or money for the hospital. Still, a joyous occasion. Growing up, every Halloween, she’s come over all excited to show you her special costume, and at Christmas you’ve gladly wrapped a couple of small gifts especially from Santa. On Easter, you’ve enjoyed coloring eggs with her and, later, helping her mom make her special Easter basket and hide the eggs. On her birthday each year, you’ve helped decorate with balloons, hang streamers and put up a rickety card table covered with a party theme table cloth, hats, horns, plates, cups and napkins all from the local thrift store. Perfect.

Her mother, originally from Mexico, has been here many years after escaping the horrific daily violence back home. She goes to work, pays taxes, and contributes to her local community in a multitude of ways. But because she’s an immigrant, she’s not eligible for the many safety-net services available to U.S. citizens. That’s okay. She’s made her way by working hard and is ever grateful to live in the U.S.  

Not feeling she’s a threat, she doesn’t fear deportation and voluntarily checks in with ICE about her immigration status and to ask about next steps. However, on her last visit, she along with about 20 other people are taken off in a white unmarked van while their relatives can only watch helplessly. (For the original story, see “ICE Separated a 6-Year-Old,” Chicago Tribune, June 22, 2025.)

You, being right next door and very close to Gabby, are among the first to have to tell her that her mother is gone.

“Where’s my mommy? I want my mommy!” she screams, thrashing wildly, smearing tears on your sleeve. You try in the kindest way to tell her you’re sure her mommy is okay and will be home soon. You desperately try to comfort her with a warm bowl of mac and cheese, her favorite. And you huddle close, read her favorite bedtime stories, until her cries gently soften from exhaustion and she falls asleep in your arms. Then you too have a good cry.

Her mother, now far away, has no idea where she’s being taken, how long she’ll be there and when, or if, she’ll ever be able to go home again. There’s no warrant for her arrest. No court date. No due process. None of the normal pillars of standard operating procedure within the U.S. judicial system. Stunned, numb and alone, she too curls up on a makeshift bed sobbing and squeezing herself pretending she’s holding her Gabby. “What’s going to happen to my little girl?” her heart cries, desperately trying to quell the unthinkable, “Will I ever see my baby again?”

Sadly, similar scenarios are being played out every day all around the country. According to, “ICE’s family separations are forcing children to parent themselves,” by Diana Fishbein, The Hill, 08/08/2025, “All this is happening to meet an arbitrary goal toward the mass deportation of 15 million immigrants, which would amount to about 3,000 each day. Because only a small fraction are criminals — in fact, immigrants commit significantly fewer violent crimes than those born in the U.S. — ICE has resorted to detaining law-abiding residents, many of whom have deep roots in their communities and children who depend on them.”

But Gabby is no number. Her mother is no number. They are human beings, our neighbors. Their children run with ours in local parks, pray with ours in Sunday school, sit in the same schoolrooms hoping for playdates. Their hopes and dreams, once possible to imagine in America, now dashed in an instant by unprovoked, unprecedented, cruelty.   

Yet, we shouldn’t be surprised. As I reported in my 3-17-2025 Opinion, 4,600 children were separated from their parents in the first Trump administration. The Biden task force successfully reunited many families but, as part of Trump’s first executive order, he rescinded the task force leaving the remaining 1,360 still searching, stranded.

Worst of all, none of this was necessary. Remember when a bipartisan immigration bill, the first to map out comprehensive reform, came up for a vote before the election? Trump made sure it didn’t pass. Why? He wanted this. And every day we’re told this is what the majority of us want too.

I don’t buy it. Not here. Not in America. I stand with our Declaration of Independence and wish for Gabby and her mother, and all those like them, the same “life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness” promised to the rest of us. And I pray that the abuse being perpetrated every day, casting a shadow the length of a lifetime over our neighbors, will soon be eradicated by all of us who can hear the cries of the children.  

Image courtesy of freepik.com

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The Mountains are Dancing – Take Two!

Did you know that something quite extraordinary happens every April? I can tell you I’m absolute certain it’s not what you’d expect! I first discovered this awe–filled event many years ago in a poem by e e cummings: when faces called flowers float out of the ground. . .

when faces called flowers float out of the ground
and breathing is wishing and wishing is having—
but keeping is downward and doubting and never
—it’s april (yes,april;my darling) it’s spring!
yes the pretty birds frolic as spry as can fly
yes the little fish gambol as glad as can be
(yes the mountains are dancing together)

I just knew one day I’d get to go to New Hampshire and visit Joy Farm, e.e. cummings’s summer home, because I just knew it was there, he’d found those mountains dancing! And, sure enough, in the mid–1980s, fate brought us here and soon after, in April (of course), we made our way up to Madison in search of Joy Farm and those dancing mountains. 

It was a weekend and, being April, lots of snow was still on the ground. We managed to find the entrance to the long driveway up to Joy Farm, but it was fenced off and clearly not passable by car. Undaunted, me, already in full swing with those dancing mountains, was not so easily dissuaded! So, we made our way back to town in search of someone who might be able to give us some kind of permission to venture up to the farm by foot. Doug, my husband, whose feet were a little closer to the ground, well, actually on the ground, kept reminding me that those mountains would not be dancing, so unabashedly, with me in jail!

Luckily, we were able to locate a man with some authority, in one of the local establishments, who gave us the okay. I remember he looked quite puzzled when I, especially, could not be persuaded to return in a couple of months when the road to Joy Farm would be passable. Didn’t he know those mountains were dancing now?!   

So, at last, up the long driveway we went! The house had been vacant for a while yet still felt to be alive, standing, waiting patiently for the return of bare feet, frivolous chatter, the smell of barbeque and stargazing off the porch. The grounds were open and rambling and a small gazebo–like room, in the middle of the back field, seemed timeless. 

But, without a doubt, it was those dancing mountains, cradling, holding us, that kept me frolicking round and round as if I could somehow fly right into the center of their waking, unguarded alive;we’re alive,dear:it’s (kiss me now) spring! pulse. 

Away with respectable composure! Down with petty self-consciousness! Let’s dive as all the pretty birds dive to the heart of the sky and climb as all the little fish climb through the mind of the sea! 

It’s April! We’re sun-drenched alive! Our faces like flowers float out of the ground! We’re opening as every leaf opens without any sound! We’re quivering, waking, pulsing as the little fish quiver so you and so i…

So, yes! Let’s dance, unbridled and undone, for its april (yes,april;my darling) it’s spring!  and, most wondrously…

all the mountains are dancing; are dancing

A pen and ink drawing of Joy Farm by my husband as it looked at the time.

And my poem I wrote this year:

I heard You whispering my name
though those stars bouncing off the stagnant pond.
I felt You in the driftwood sleeping in my hand.
I saw You lift that hawk into wispy clouds
as the stone people sang in silence.

You are waking and so am I.
It’s Spring and I am a fledging eager to fly
wobbly and awkward
onto a new dream.

It’s April and my heart turns to sunflowers
where I see You winking and
flirting with my heart.
Yes, You are my Love.

And the Song of my Soul erupts through my feet
suspending me on Your windy breath
in that place where only wonder resides.

Ecstatic now.
I can only dance.
Wild and free.

The hawk just before being lifted up . . .

Just the beginning of a new nature creation . . . parts that agree to come together
to create something beautiful . . .

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