The following story first appeared in the Autumn 2000 Glenmary Challenge.
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The Fields of Dreams
Tomato fields are the stuff of dreams for the migrants who 
find their way to Glenmary’s Arkansas missions.
By Father Vic Subb

For eight years I saw the fields in Southwest Arkansas come alive each spring as people came from south of the border to work in the tomato fields. I had the tremendous opportunity to listen to hundreds of people tell their stories of why they come to work in these fields of dreams.

For many of them, coming to the United States to work means a better life for their families in Mexico. For some, it is the opportunity to provide an education to a child; for others, the desire to ensure there is meat for the family table. But all these opportunities mean moving away from their roots, from their loved ones.

With all of the people I met and the dreams they shared, there was always faith involved, a faith that God would provide, that God was always with them. No matter what dangers they faced, God was always there for them.

During the months that the Arkansas fields were filled with workers, I had the opportunity to celebrate Mass— sometimes at an old rickety-down shack on a broken table, always next to the beauty of the fields of dreams.

Over the years I have seen young boys become men and men become old before their time. And each one had a story full of hopes and dreams. One such man was Lauro.

I met Lauro during his first year in the United States; he was 35. He dreamed that someday his 16-year-old son, Pedro, would be able to go to college and have a better life. He also dreamed of not having to worry about where to find food for his two younger children and his wife—and of enjoying some of the comforts of life, such as a television in their home.

One day Lauro was helping a farmer put in water pipe. He was in the back of a truck with three other men. The truck was going too fast and, when it stopped abruptly, Lauro fell from the truck and was run over.

His friends jumped to his aid, but Lauro laid on the ground seriously injured, his blood staining the field of dreams. His friends put leaves and branches all over him to keep him shaded from the hot June sun. 

It was a big decision whether to take him to the hospital or not. Lauro was one of the many people who come to the United States “without papers”—that is, illegally. Should the farmer take him to the hospital and risk having it be known that he had someone without papers working for him? 

Finally, it was decided to take him to the hospital. But when they got there, Lauro was already dead.

It seemed like everyone wanted to keep Lauro’s death a secret. The farmers refused to talk about it. The men who were with Lauro wanted to tell the story of what really happened, but there wasn’t anyone who wanted to listen. 

Insurance was available to send Lauro’s body back to Mexico. The tragedy is that it seemed so easy to forget that it was a person who died, not just a number.

We had a beautiful Mass outside the rundown shack that Lauro had shared with 15 other men. There must have been a hundred people in attendance—young men and old men, some women. Some did not know Lauro, but all shared his dreams for their own families. All shared in the back-breaking field work that people in the United States will not do. They cried and remembered; they shared the Eucharist together.

Sometime later Lauro’s wife called to say, “Father, my Pedro is coming to the United States this year. He doesn’t have any family there. He is only 16. Keep an eye on him.”

Pedro was coming to take his father’s place in the fields of dreams.

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