There is so much more to do.

I wake every morning, far too early, with a sense of urgency that is nearly painful. Every so often, I catch myself gasping a bit with frustration. I don’t know what to do, and I feel my limitations. And I am weary.

The cause of justice for migrants, for humans who move to find safety and better lives, has gotten no better. If anything, it is worse now than when we started fighting this fight.

But it has gotten louder, and maybe we should should take some satisfaction from that. Those who have stood, marched, raised our voices, harangued the authorities, hectored the candidates and members of Congress, begged for media attention, pointed to the plight of those persecuted…

We have gotten somewhere. Newspapers are saying things, television is following. Hearings are promised. It’s not enough. It will not be enough until the camps are closed, until places like Homestead, and Homestead itself, are relegated to the caverns of a shameful past, reminders of how easy it is to forget how monstrous we can be.

But perhaps the horrible grinding we hear is the wheels of justice beginning to turn. And those who stand on our stepladders, calling to the children, can deliver the message that we are coming, that we are on our way.

And please forgive us for taking so long.