Containers of Nutrition and Hope

In Immokalee, uncertainty has become part of daily life. When ICE (U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement) activity ramps up, families often stay home—too afraid to go to work, school, or even the grocery store.

That’s why, in early January, we began preparing container gardens to share—again. These simple but powerful sets include a five-gallon bucket with a sturdy collard plant and an 8-quart dishpan full of cilantro, chosen for their cultural relevance and nutrition. So far, more than two dozen of these have made their way to some of our most vulnerable neighbors.

This isn’t new. We've done this before—during past immigration crackdowns and again during the COVID-19 lockdowns—whenever people were forced to stay inside. These gardens help stretch household food for a few more days. But even without a crisis, they continue to provide fresh veggies and herbs right outside the door.

With help from our faithful volunteers—Bianca and José, a friend from Naples, and later church teams from South Carolina and Georgia—we assembled and tended the garden sets until they were mature and ready to go. On a rainy Wednesday in January and then again in February, we loaded a dozen sets into the van and made home visits among select households deemed particularly vulnerable.

We didn’t just drop off gardens. We left behind organic fertilizer, “Know Your Rights” cards in Spanish and Haitian Kreyol, and, perhaps most importantly, a word of blessing for each household. These visits were intimate, heartfelt, and often emotional.

One of the women we visited saw her husband detained just days later. Another recipient was arrested and now faces a court hearing in April. Even one of our own—someone many in our community would recognize—has a court hearing scheduled for October. Though she holds a valid work permit and serves faithfully on our team, the threat of deportation still hangs over her.

For the volunteers, many from churches hundreds of miles away, these experiences were eye-opening. They met the very people who harvest the food on our tables, build our homes, and do work that much of the country depends on—but rarely sees. They met their children.

We hope—and believe—that these visitors return home changed. They now carry the stories and names of families who face the constant threat of detention and deportation. We trust they continue to pray.

And those prayers are needed. Immokalee is a place of deep fear right now. But it's also a place of resistance and resilience. The gardens continue to grow, offering nutrition, comfort, and dignity. And in every container, every seedling, and every shared blessing, we do our best to pass along love—and hope.