The basement of the Los Angeles ICE facility is cold. The lights hum. The walls echo. Families stand in a narrow waiting area built for one purpose: to hold them outside a locked door they have no power to open.

I’m not sure ordinary people are still allowed in the White House. Gilded rooms catch the light, and polished coasters stamped with the president’s name glare back—ornaments in a palace that’s forgotten the hands that built it.

November 13 always sneaks up on me, even when I’m waiting for it. St. Frances Xavier (Mother) Cabrini’s feast day carries a certain weight—a tenderness, a strength, a call to attention.

Some days, the Church speaks in a whisper. Other days, she speaks with the voice of a mother who has seen too much and can’t stay quiet anymore. Today was one of those days.