She Walked into an Appointment- And Never Came Out

Help Bring G Home to Her Family

Geanina and I decided to meet in the parking lot at 7:40 a.m. on Monday, March 16th. She climbed into my car 20 minutes before her scheduled fingerprint appointment. We saw several women her age crawling out of the cars parked next to us, large manila envelopes in tow, arms wrapped around themselves and their envelopes. Eyes red.

I encouraged her. We read Psalm 23. We share faith in the same God. Geanina (I call her G) texted me earlier and said, “Cris, I know that my God is in control and He will take care of me.”

We got out of the car together. She was dressed in heels, a long, stylish khaki trench coat, not a hair out of place, and red lipstick. She is beautiful on any given day. Today, she was stunning. My only thought was, I hope she brought extra clothes to change into after this appointment, so she can get to work on time.

G loves the color red. She is smart and picked up English quickly—a teacher in her former life. I have watched her hold and comfort grieving people, have the best attitude on the worst day, and bring me dark chocolate when my soul depended on it. Her kids are her world, and she has the highest love and respect for her husband. She loves God, and she loves people.

We prayed one final prayer. I looked her in the eye and said, “Okay, let’s do this.” She responded, “Okay… I will do it.”

I walked her to the door of the large red brick building with blacked-out windows and warning signs covering the front door:

Do not enter with your cell phone.

You are being recorded.

No children allowed.

If you want to self-deport and go home, call this number.

I was ready to go inside with her, but she said I would not be allowed. I later found out I could have sat in the four-seat waiting room just inside the door. This is one of my biggest regrets.

I hugged her tight. She put on a brave smile, and for the first time, I entertained the thought that she might not come out of that building.

As I walked to my car, I passed another Spanish woman with a manila envelope and tears in her eyes, and I thought to myself: I am going to hug her too. I grabbed this stranger and held her tight. She baptized me in Spanish, and we both cried. I told her to go in peace.

…Is this real? Is this happening? She has all her documentation. She is a documented immigrant seeking asylum who has not broken the law. How is this possible?

I sat in my car and waited for 30 minutes. It’s 30 degrees outside, and it is already starting to snow. I think it’s getting colder. I have her husband’s number, and he has mine. He and their middle school daughter are waiting down the hill. When she comes out, I will bring her to them. They didn’t feel safe waiting in the parking lot.

Then I get the phone call—the call that changes you. If you have lived any length of time, you have had one of these calls. There is life before the call and life after.

My phone rings. I hear a baby girl on the other line.

“They arrested my mom, Ms. Cristal…” Tears.

My head was spinning. I wasn’t sure what to do or think. I truly did not believe this was possible. What did she do wrong? What is the reason behind this?

I drove down the hill to a neighboring parking lot. I got out of my car. I was trembling, but not from the cold. I looked at her husband and daughter as they got out to greet me, and I hugged him like a lifeline to my breaking heart.

I grabbed that baby girl next. Because I am a mom. She is my baby girl now. She matters. She does not have her mom, and she is terrified.

She looked me in the eye and said, “What if they take my dad and separate us? What if they come to school and take me next?”

And I had no answer.

The rest of the day—and most of the week—were a blur. It felt like it did when my dad died. It was hard to think straight, hard to do simple tasks. She was there, and then she was gone. She’s just gone.

This feels like a death.

I have not only lost my friend, but my understanding of the safety of our systems. How can this happen?

Despite my debilitating grief, Aarron and I dove into research. So many questions. So much information. I will not go into all the details, but my biggest question was this:

How can documented immigrants—people seeking asylum, refugee status, or even a green card—be arrested if they have not committed a crime and have all the required paperwork?

The answer: policy changes.

Those who were previously protected while awaiting their court dates are now subject to arrest.

Geanina called me from jail two days after her arrest. She would be in Memphis for two days and then transferred to a larger prison in Louisiana.

As with any prisoner, she must have funds deposited into an account for food, shampoo, a toothbrush, and phone calls, etc.

She shared heartbreaking conditions and harsh treatment. The conversation was very short. We both cried.

How could this amazing woman—wife, mother, professional—be subject to this?

Money was scraped together, and a lawyer was retained. G has been told by jail personnel that she has a court date on March 27th, but the lawyer cannot find any record of it.

Research has been done. Character references have been submitted, with documentation showing that those references were written by U.S. citizens. There is a Plan A, Plan B, and Plan C.

Ultimately, the best-case scenario is that G is released on bond, most likely between $5,000 and $10,000.

This is where you come in.

If you feel led, please give to my sister in Christ, G. Give toward her court costs, her Bond, her lawyer fees, her rent and living expenses while she is unable to work, her basic needs while in prison, and toward a daughter who needs her mom back.

Give to a family that came to this country with a dream—to build a better life.

Any amount helps. Nothing is too small.

Funds will be deposited into the account of a U.S. citizen family member.

I will keep you updated and informed. If you have any questions, please contact me. I will answer as best I can while still protecting this family.... and by all means...

Pray to our Father who loves all the little children of the world.