By Georges Budagu Makoko—publisher of Amjambo Africa and founder of Ladder to the Moon Network
“Lord, if it is possible, may this cup pass from us today.”
There are moments when the heavens seem to close their gates and the shadow of drought hovers over our communities. We look toward the sky and desperately pray for rain—water for our crops, our livestock, our wells and our families.
Then there are moments when the rain comes with such force that rivers overflow their banks, homes are destroyed and entire communities are devastated. Lives are lost, families grieve, and what took generations to build can disappear in hours.
Natural disasters break our hearts, but we understand that they are beyond human control. There is no person to whom we can appeal and say, “Please stop the rain.”
But there is another kind of suffering that troubles me more deeply: suffering caused by human decisions.
When suffering from policies and choices made by people, we must ask difficult questions: Could this suffering have been prevented? Could we have chosen mercy? Could we have upheld the law while still protecting human dignity?
In recent months, here in Maine and across the country, I have witnessed a level of fear within immigrant communities unlike anything I have seen before.
During increased immigration enforcement activities in January, I witnessed church services nearly empty because people were afraid to leave their homes. Those who found the courage to attend prayed through tears, asking God to touch the hearts of people in positions of authority and remind them that their decisions profoundly affect human lives.
I watched public gatherings shrink. I heard people wrestling with choices no parent should have to make: Do I go to work and risk not coming home? Do I buy groceries for my children? Do I take them to school? Do I attend an important appointment? Do I travel to the funeral of someone I love, or stay home and grieve alone?
Imagine waking each morning, looking at the people you love, walking out your front door and quietly praying: “Lord, please let me come home tonight.”
On Sunday, August 17, at our church, I witnessed something I will never forget.
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A young woman who had been detained for several weeks returned after her release. Church members, friends, and the wider community had worked tirelessly and raised thousands of dollars to help secure her release.
When she tried to describe what she had experienced, she could barely speak. She sobbed. Soon, tears spread throughout the sanctuary—tears of pain, relief and joy. Children from Sunday school were overjoyed to see her after weeks of absence. People embraced someone they had feared they might not see again.
Watching that reunion reminded me of people who have told me that whenever they leave home, they pray simply to return safely to their families.
No human being should become accustomed to living with that kind of fear.
Ten years ago, I founded Ladder to the Moon Network, partly because I saw a painful gap between what immigrants and refugees had experienced and what their receiving communities understood about their journeys.
People see the immigrant who arrives in their neighborhood but not what came before. They do not see war, violence or persecution. They do not hear gunfire. They do not experience nights spent wondering whether their children will survive until morning.
They do not see the painful decision to leave behind home, relatives, language, memories and everything familiar to journey toward a place they may never have imagined calling home.
People do not always leave because they want to. Sometimes they run because staying could mean dying.
When we do not understand that history, assumptions can overwrite understanding—and when understanding disappears, empathy often follows. Ten years after founding Ladder to the Moon Network, I realize how much work remains.
I believe in justice. I believe in the rule of law. I believe in public safety. But I also believe in humanity. These principles do not have to be at odds.
A nation can enforce its laws while recognizing the dignity of the individual standing before it. Where the law permits discretion, authorities can consider personal circumstances and ask whether a less harmful response can accomplish the same purpose lawfully.
Consider a child separated from a mother—not because she has died, but because she has been deported. The child knows Mom is alive somewhere. The mother knows her child is alive somewhere. Yet neither knows when—or whether—they will hold each other again.
Imagine that mother carrying the unbearable grief of leaving her children behind. Imagine a child asking, “When is Mommy coming home?” while those caring for that child struggle to find an answer.
Justice matters. But mercy matters, too.
After 24 years in Maine, I have seen how much our communities depend on one another. Healthcare, hospitality, construction and many other industries need workers who can go to work without wondering whether they will return. Schools need children focused on learning, without wondering if their parents will be home when school ends. Churches need people who can worship without wondering who may be missing next Sunday, same with Muslims, Jews and other members of our communities.
This is bigger than immigration policy. It is a question about who we choose to be when we have power over others.
My prayer today is not only for immigrants. It is for all of us—for frightened families and those entrusted with authority; for children waiting for parents; for worshippers with empty seats; and for communities struggling to understand one another.
Lord, when justice is necessary, give us wisdom.
When the law must be upheld, give us fairness.
When someone is suffering, give us compassion.
When we have the power to choose between greater suffering and mercy, help us remember our shared humanity.
And for every mother, father and child who walks out the door wondering whether their family will be together tonight, I offer one final prayer: Lord, may this cup pass from us today. May everyone make it home.
