BY SISTER KATHLEEN STORMS

These past few months in Minnesota have unfolded under a shadow of fear and sorrow that has touched every one of us. And yet, as I look back, what rises first in my heart is gratitude—gratitude for the steady current of prayer, solidarity and love flowing from our School Sisters of Notre Dame (SSND) community. That support has been a quiet strength beneath each day.

Here in Minnesota, our lives have become intertwined with the lives of asylum seekers and immigrants who carry stories of deep fear for their families. Listening to them has moved many of us from silence to presence, from concern to action. We stood beside them in the streets, raising our voices against injustice. We have prayed with them at the Whipple Federal Building, where each month families arrive not knowing whether they will return home or be taken away. That ground has become sacred to us—holy because of the courage and vulnerability we witness there.

We have joined thousands at the Minnesota State Capitol, pleading with our leaders to protect our neighbors and restore dignity in the face of ICE’s relentless presence. Our prayers have mingled with chants, our hope with the determination of so many others who refuse to look away. We have walked to the memorials of Renee Good, Alex Pretti and George Floyd—places where grief still hangs in the air and where communities continue to rebuild their lives. Standing there, we prayed for them, for their families and for the neighborhoods still healing from trauma and loss.

And closer to home, our ministry has been as simple and profound as checking on the people who live in our own building—neighbors who are afraid to go to work, buy groceries, or walk their children to the bus stop. Presence has become its own form of protection.

Yet even in the midst of sorrow and righteous anger, hope keeps breaking through. I see it in the thousands of ordinary citizens who are stepping forward with extraordinary courage—witnessing ICE detentions, offering rides, delivering groceries, supporting families in our schools. Their generosity is a quiet revolution. It pushes back against fear. It knits together a community that refuses to be divided.

In these months, I have learned again that unity is not an abstract ideal. It is lived in small acts of courage, in shared tears, in prayers whispered at dawn, in the simple decision to show up. Community is the gift of this time. And in that gift, I find hope.