Affirming faith in a new home

HOUSTON - Ana Ulloa Romero and her two younger children reached their arms over the car tire supporting them as they propelled themselves through the murky Rio Grande toward the hope of something better. Debris and water started filling the tire, pulling them downward and scaring the younger ones, whom Romero comforted with quick prayers.

Please God, protect my family.

Somewhere in the desert expanse ahead of them, Romero's husband, Oscar, was crossing with "coyotes," human smugglers. She would learn later how the so-called safe house became a torture chamber where the coyotes beat the men and raped the women; how he was often forced to watch, and tried to mentally escape with prayers of his own.

Please God, let me see my family again.

One year later, the Romeros are trying to make a life for themselves in Houston, where tens of thousands of undocumented people like them have flocked to the Catholic Church for spiritual and physical support. The faith that sustained their journey from Honduras has only strengthened.

Houston is one of the fastest-growing cities in the United States - fueled in large part by its oil and gas industry. It's also one of the most diverse in the nation, serving as a major port of entry for immigrants - legal and illegal - and refugees.

As Catholic churches across the country shutter or consolidate, the Archdiocese of Galveston-Houston faces a different problem - how to provide for its immigrant population, a fearful but faithful group spanning multiple generations and experiences.

The archdiocese has built 27 new churches since 2006 and opened three new Catholic schools. Of the 1.3 million parishioners (a minimum, since many undocumented people don't register for church out of fear), an estimated 62 percent are Hispanic. Mass is said in 16 languages. Eight parishes have more than 6,000 members, and four of those have 10,000 members.

"We're in a situation of huge growth, which has its beauty and its challenges," said Cardinal Daniel DiNardo, the first cardinal in Texas. "We have so many undocumented, it's incredible, and they live in a certain amount of fear."

Pope Francis, whose paternal grandparents and their family fled Mussolini's Italy for Argentina in 1928, has made the plight of the poor and immigrants a major theme of his papacy. He has called for a change of attitude, "toward migrants and refugees . . . moving away from attitudes of defensiveness and fear, indifference and marginalization - all typical of a throwaway culture - toward attitudes based on a culture of encounter, the only culture capable of building a better, more just, and fraternal world."

Here, in Houston, one of the largest dioceses in the country, the church aims to nurture and hold onto this population that faces so many challenges: the start-up transitional needs of a new life, the loneliness and depression once here, deportation issues, and the physical toll of the journey.

"We have people on various divides of this, as you can expect in a border state, but from the point of view of our Catholic faith, we say, yes, we have a right to border security, but not at the expense of what's happened to some immigrants," DiNardo said. "They're here to stay. They're not going to leave. Now, we can keep them in the shadows, or we can find better ways than what we're doing to integrate them into who and what we are."

The $520-a-month, one-bedroom apartment the Romero family shares in Midtown, run by Catholic nuns, is teeming with rejected belongings previous inhabitants left behind. For a family that crossed a river and desert with nothing one year ago, it's a treasure trove.

New immigrant families, without relatives in the U.S., face immediate concerns of where to go for basic food and shelter.

Ana and Oscar, both 42, are slight and stern-faced, as though the weight of their journey has worn them down. They're loving and kind to each other, intermittently holding hands and sharing knowing glances. Both speak very limited English.

The two younger Romero boys, ages 5 and 14, sleep in the bedroom with their parents. Their 16-year-old son sleeps on a mattress in the living room.

On the wooden dresser, prayer cards are propped against the mirror beside painted statues of the Virgin Mary and St. Joseph, beaded rosaries, and a candle in the shape of a cross. The fridge is well-stocked - though much of the donated produce and meat came to them already expired.

The family, fleeing gang threats and extortion, came here illegally 15 months ago and first moved into an auto shop, where they slept among cars waiting to be repaired.

Magnificat House, the family's current home, is a charitable nonprofit serving Houston's homeless. The apartment complex in Midtown is operated by several orders of nuns and caters specifically to those with mental illness, who live in apartments adjoining the Romeros'. The parents don't like for their boys to go outside alone when they're not home.

The apartment isn't the American dream the couple envisioned when they fled Honduras in March 2014, but it's a huge step in the right direction. Here, their family is together, safe, and independent.

"It's good for building confidence," said Oscar Romero. "It's very good for us right now."

As small-business owners in Honduras, they were targeted by local gangs who demanded an "impuesto de guerra" - a war tax, which grew higher and higher. When they refused to pay, the gang showed up at their ice cream shop and pointed a pistol at the temple of then-15-year-old Oscar Jr.

The memories of conditions in Honduras - one of the most violent countries in the world - are still so raw that both parents' brown eyes tear up at its mention. Their store and home were looted after they left, and most of the money they had went to paying smugglers. They say the transitional support they have received from the church has made all the difference.

"What I think is so sorely misunderstood even today, by a large number of American citizens, is the lack of resources that are available to these folks," said Deacon Sam Dunning, head of the Archdiocese Office of Peace and Justice. "Unless you go to a private charity, you really are at risk. Health care is not available to all. There are just so many legal limitations on what folks can access."High legal fees have deterred the Romeros from applying for asylum at this point.

Undocumented immigrants don't qualify for many federal public assistance programs, with some important exceptions (food stamps, emergency Medicaid, school lunches). Given the large undocumented population, that puts a burden on private and faith-based charities.

Catholic Charities has extensive programming - starting at the border and continuing into Texas towns and cities with legal aid and housing and health assistance. The organization holds free acculturation sessions, which include English classes, driver's ed, and personal finances.

On a Saturday last month, the Romeros went to the St. Charles Borromeo parish food pantry, where Mesias Pedroza, head of the social ministry to the poor, greeted them. Pedroza, an associate professor at two universities in Houston, manages to also spend 20 hours a week volunteering at the pantry and directing people to the services they need.

High school students - many of them undocumented themselves - volunteer with Pedroza at the shelter to keep it running."The sad thing is that not a lot of people inside the church see these services as something dignified," Pedroza said. "Sometimes they look more for roles where they can shine, be appreciated, preach to people - all of which are important - but sometimes they neglect the social aspect of translating the Gospel into action, and we need that so badly here."

The Romeros don't want to rely so heavily on the church, but finding work is a huge challenge without papers. Oscar mostly does landscaping for Magnificat House, and he and his wife try to get shifts at restaurants. Oscar Jr. works at a flea market when he's not in school.

"There's a lot of racism, exploitation - even within the Hispanic community," said the father. "Sometimes I'll go for work [at a restaurant] and then they won't pay. Or we'll work all day without eating and for very little pay. We try to sneak crumbs. It's a lot of humiliation."

A family that was making ends meet in Honduras now is at the mercy of charity and luck to get by. Ana Romero surrenders to frequent tears and unnecessary apologies describing her situation. She says that once her family is situated and her children have grown, she'll encourage them to become missionaries.

Whatever they decide to be, though, this struggle is for them. Franklin, their chatty, bright-eyed 5-year-old and the best English speaker in the family, brought home a certificate for excellence in pre-K.Oscar Jr. is a standout in his school's ROTC program. A photo of him in uniform in front of an American flag is tucked into a box of family mementos.

The Romeros' daughter, Sara, 19, moved to California to ease some of the family's financial burden. She checks in regularly.

Jeffrey, 14, is quiet and thoughtful. At the pantry, he studied a pile of dismantled, computer parts in the corner and started to put the pieces together, one outdated section after the next. He actually got the machine to turn on and Pedroza told him to take it home with him as his father smiled, impressed at his son's ingenuity.

"I'm happy to see them doing good," Oscar Romero said. "And to continue moving forward."

The girls shuffled down the aisle in white dresses, sparkly tiaras in their hair - a lineup of little angels on their First Communion day. Blanca Reyes looked at her 8-year-old daughter, Jennifer, among them - and the faces of the people filling the brightly painted chapel - and thought about how far her family had come in five years, thanks in large part to this small place.

She and her husband had fled Monterrey, Mexico, with their four children in 2008, after phone calls from neighborhood gangs threatening to kidnap or kill them became too frequent to ignore. They told their three daughters and one son that they were going to Houston for a vacation, knowing full well they would never return.

The family's first home was a garage near the Port of Houston, which cost $430 a month. Its owner told them as undocumented immigrants they wouldn't qualify for any public housing and couldn't afford anything else.

Those first weeks, when the kids were at school and her husband was working, Reyes spent entire days sitting in the dark, damp garage, listening to the groans of 18-wheelers passing outside. In Mexico she had worked as a supervisor at a wine shop and as a secretary, and attended night classes at a local university. She had friends and a busy social calendar. Here, she was isolated.

"I just looked around and I said, 'No, this is not my life. I want my life back. What am I going to do?' " Reyes said. "I'm not just going to stay here with my hands closed."

Finding work for undocumented men is a struggle. For women it can be even tougher, because most jobs available are in manual labor. Many find at least a temporary place at the church.

"They come because it's a place where they feel they can participate," said Deacon Arturo Monterrubio, director of the Office of Family Life Ministry. "It's a place to meet others coming from their country, someone who speaks my language, somewhere I can celebrate what I believe, and even though I might feel a stranger, this is a place where I feel secure."

Reyes started volunteering at Capilla la Divina Providencia, a sister chapel to the nearby Resurrection Catholic Church, built in 2003 near the Port of Houston. She taught, and still teaches catechism, preparing children for First Communion.

The chapel, built by locals, draws migrant workers and families in search of a church experience reminiscent of home.

"This property line was dirt and a couple of little houses that the community came together and built with their sweat, their blood, their prayers," said Amy Davila, pastoral associate at the chapel. "It came out of a need for something in this industry. And that's what the architecture of this building represents: The outside is Port Houston, and the inside is the beauty of the community."

For Reyes, the church became a social network of support and friendship. It's a misconception, she said, that most immigrants know people before they arrive. She had no family or friends in the beginning.

Now she is president of a new Hispanic committee set up by the church's pastor, the Rev. Chris Plant. The 10-member group organizes fund-raisers, dances, and special events.

Reyes also volunteers at her children's schools, teaches computer classes in schools, and enrolled her whole family in an emergency response certification program so they can help if the city floods or in case of natural disaster.

"She has given so much and worked so hard, it makes me realize how much I owe to her and how much I want to give back," said her oldest daughter, Nitzia, 18.

"This country, the church, it's given us the opportunity to be safer," Reyes said. "I can't give money, so I wanted to do what little I can with my hands."

When living beneath the law, every advancement is fragile because the next setback could be near.

The family lives in a three-bedroom, comfortable home - no longer stuck in a garage - but it still struggles to make ends meet on the $500 a week that Eliseo typically makes.

The oldest children, Daniel, 21, and Nitzia, 18, are students at the University of Houston-Downtown, but when Daniel enrolled in fewer courses last semester so he could work part time to help his family, he lost his tuition grant. It only applied to full-time students.

After months of saving, the family purchased a second car to make transporting everyone easier - then an accident in May totaled it. Eight-year-old Jennifer suffered an arm fracture in the crash. The Reyeses said the other driver was at fault, texting while driving, but because she is unlicensed and undocumented - as are the Reyeses - the insurance money is taking a long time to come through.

"In addition to [the threat of] removal hearings and all of the larger issues the undocumented community faces, there are so many everyday problems that arise," said Maria Mitchell, codirector of the Cabrini Center for Immigrant Legal Assistance at Catholic Charities.

Particularly for refugee and undocumented communities, Mitchell said, this makes the support of a strong parish with access to social services key. "They need professional intervention, but more importantly, long term, they need that parish community - they're the ones who are going to be with them through whatever happens."

James and Erla Sehtman met in Guatemala when they were teenagers. Her parents were skeptical at first about the pairing - James was a bit of a dreamer who seemed more love-struck jokester than serious husband and provider. But he had fallen for their daughter, a strikingly beautiful, studious type with a shy smile. When they sent her to the U.S. in 1991 on a student visa to learn English, he got a tourist permit and followed.

"I chased after her and convinced her to marry me," Sehtman said of their courtship, which still makes him brag nearly 30 years later.

The two settled in Houston, had three children - and let their visas expire. James became a serious workhorse - going from various plumbing jobs to owning his own plumbing company.

In 2000, Congress passed the Nicaraguan Adjustment and Central American Relief Act, granting amnesty to certain Nicaraguans and Cubans. Sehtman, who was born in Nicaragua, qualified and applied to become a citizen. After he became a legal resident in 2007, he went to Catholic Charities for help in applying for his wife.

That's when the trouble began. A few days after contacting his attorney, he got a frantic call with news that shocked him: "James, your wife is on the deportation list."

"We just said, 'It can't be. There's no way,'" Sehtman said. "We ran over to the Office of Deportation and gave them her name and sure enough, it was there."

For decades, the U.S. deportation process has been criticized as overly punitive and destructive to families. President Obama, reform activists, and faith leaders have called for protection from deportation and an end to the current process of detention.

Obama's November executive order would affect nearly five million people by providing deportation protection and work permits to those who qualify. Texas - along with 25 other states - sued, saying the federal government was overstepping its powers and putting a huge financial burden on the states. The case could go to the U.S. Supreme Court.

Attorneys at Catholic Charities work on the front lines of these removal hearings.

The St. Frances Cabrini Center for Immigration Legal Assistance in Houston handles about 1,000 cases a year, helping people regardless of legal status or religious affiliation. Last year, an unprecedented number of unaccompanied minors crossed the border. Harris County, with the help of the Cabrini Center, placed 4,000 unaccompanied minors in the care of a primary family member.

In the Sehtmans' case, the root of their trouble dated back to 1994, about three years after they moved to Houston, when a friend of Erla Sehtman persuaded her to apply for asylum. She started the process, but after the judge asked her to provide better proof of the danger she would face in Guatemala, she never followed up.

She didn't realize that she had been formally denied and placed on a deportation list. Even more confusing, the couple never received any notices or warnings.

"Once you're on the list, it's incredibly difficult to get out of it. I didn't think we had a case. I started crying, I couldn't stop crying, because my life was destroyed at that moment," said James Sehtman.

"I couldn't sleep, thinking, what am I going to do? I've got a life here, I've got kids here, I don't want to destroy the lives we built for them."

His wife checked in with Immigration every three months leading up to her court date. She wasn't permitted to leave Harris County without special allowances. Her officer gave her an extra week so they could take the kids to Walt Disney World. They thought it might be their last big vacation in the country together.

James Sehtman flew to Guatemala - a country he hardly recognized - where he bought and furnished a house. He evaluated area schools and their success rates. He started planning how he'd commute between the countries to keep his business afloat. The younger boys would probably go with their mother, but the one in high school would stay in the U.S. to go to college.

"We've been good citizens since we came here - we paid taxes, we don't have tickets, we did everything good citizens would do because we love it here. We love this country, and now, by leaving it, our lives were ending," Erla Sehtman said.

Meanwhile, their attorney at Catholic Charities, Sister Veronica Schueler, successfully argued for the immigration court to reopen their case. It was all up to a judge to decide whether to vacate the order of deportation and grant Erla a green card.

"The thing with immigration is, there's the law and the regulations and then there's also the policy, both written and unwritten, and that can change from day to day," said Schueler, who is also codirector of the St. Frances Cabrini Center for Immigration Legal Assistance.

On the day of the hearing, Schueler and the Sehtmans waited as family after family emerged from the courtroom, faces drawn, some sobbing. In Guatemala, Erla Sehtman's entire family filled a small chapel, praying on their knees that she'd be able to stay.

The judge heard her appeal for a pardon and granted it.

Erla Sehtman said the court officer who finalized her paperwork told her in the 10 years he worked at the office he'd seen thousands of cases, but only two, maybe three, had ever ended that way.

"He told me, 'You're one of the lucky ones,' " she said.

After the case, the Sehtmans sent Schueler a woven tapestry with a cross of the Black Christ of Esquipulas, a city in Guatemala, in the middle. It is on display in her office.

They aren't angry about what happened. Erla Sehtman became a citizen in 2010.

"This country is actually super-nice, because they give people freedom. There are people who think they can do whatever they want. They really don't know what it is not to have," said James Sehtman. "A lot of people come and think [the government] needs to give me this, do that for me."

"No," his wife jumped in, holding her husband's hand in the Catholic Charities office where they told their story. "You need to come and adjust and work to make your life."

215-854-5506@juliaterruso