Grace Beyond Borders

As I transition to a refugee in Mexico, I don’t know what the future will bring. I know only that it won’t be the one the United States promised me, because that promise was broken long ago. But I do know this: whatever lies ahead, it brings something better...

It brings grace.

Freshly diving into Mexico, I am struck by the clarity that comes when everything is stripped away. Humility is truly humbling and after making six figures and climbing the corporate ladder. When faced against opportunistic opposition, my soul asked for what I was never brave enough to say out loud. When you’re forced to exit your country, necessity reveals itself. My list? A few symbolic keepsakes, my dog, a handful of sentimental items, and a leather bound Bible that belonged to my great-grandmother. That, and the conviction that God still walks with me.

In both Mexico and Norway, I was surprised at first by how freely people spoke of God. Not religion, God. There was no hostility, no defensiveness, no performance. Our beliefs weren’t ammunition; they were bridges. Shared openly, gently, without agenda. It stood out in contrast to the United States, where faith has been hijacked by capital interests and weaponized under the guise of patriotism. And trust me, all of us say "fuck" and still pray to someone bigger than us.

Across my travels, I sit with people displaced by war, corruption, propaganda, and American policy exported as doctrine. They don’t know my filings or the courtroom games I’ve endured, but they know what it means to be forced to leave your home for telling the truth. The people who relate to me most aren’t reading my docket; they’re holding their own stories of survival, while smiling saying "I made it." It turns out, what’s happening to me isn’t an anomaly. It’s standard practice around the globe.

It will never be an institution that saves me. Not the court. Not the party. Not the badge or bench. It will be the grace I find in foreigners. The God I see in strangers. The sacred humanity that shows up on a cigarette break.

This morning, as I had my coffee and cigarette, a kind young man approached and pointed to the cross around my neck. "You’re a believer," he said. "Yes," I replied. "I wouldn’t have made it this far if God didn’t walk with me."

He told me he was from Israel and my face fell. I told him I spent time reading about the history of Israel when the war started, his face lightened, and I know he felt seen by me. As we discussed God, he said he had always wanted to read the Bible. We spoke of our countries, our pain, our politics. Of being disillusioned by headlines and disappointed by governments. And then he said, simply, "Shalom."

Tonight we meet for Bible and Beers, because we both recognize it doesn't matter how you get to God, just that you rely on Him or your higher power when it's easiest to turn away from your faith.

I will share with him a Bible passed down through bloodline and fire. And we will pray to the same God, across different languages and wars, knowing the vessel doesn’t matter. Humanity does.

This is the shift.

Not a perfect country. Not a clean court. Not a safe ruling.

But a cigarette. A cross. A "Shalom." A shared table. And the quiet truth that the spirit of God cannot be detained.

My spirituality and my practices no longer have a leash.

When the legal complexities first began in January of 2024 and my PTSD escalated to places I had never experienced before my prayers began to echo humility I hadn't felt before. My prayers were simple.

Please don't let me lose my kindness.

Please take this pain from me, I won't make it another day.

Please keep me on your path. I won't be perfect, I will stumble, but I won't fall.

I am grateful to know, we always get what we pray for, it's just not always what we envision it to be.

Jolene Jones, Canary with Teeth & Federal Whistleblade

James 2:14