“I’ll see you tomorrow, son… I’ll see you tomorrow.” Those were the last words I heard from my father on Father’s Day yesterday. It was a rushed response to something I was telling him. I was being cut off because the doors were opening and he had to hang up the phone and go in. Those three words were full of hope, full of expectancy. In a way those words were said unconsciously. My father said them as if he had been dreaming for months of the day that he would see me, my siblings, and his grandchildren again. That was his goodbye. All I can do is wait for him to call again this week.

I don’t normally put out stuff like this online since I have a group of people I share all this with and who walk with me in this, but reflecting on my dad and his life, I decided to write a bit and share a little about him.

My father is Antonio Villatoro. He will be 65 years old in a few months. For now, he is in a detention center in Brackettville, Texas. It is a long story, but the short one is that he is awaiting his sentencing to serve time for illegal re-entry into the United States. Since last June, his sentencing has been postponed and reset twice. The lawyer says he doesn’t know why. Yes, my father broke the law. There is no question about that. He came illegally to this country from El Savador. But, it is way more complicated than that. My father lived in the U.S. since the early 1980s. He and my mother settled in the Southeast side of Houston, Tx., and I was born in 1985.

Dad with his kids, 1993

In the following 5 years, my three siblings were born and my parents did everything in their power to gives us the best. We didn’t go to Seaworld or Disney, but we had new bikes and new tennis shoes. I had school supplies and school uniforms. My parents gave us everything they thought we needed to be able to succeed in school. We used to devour books at a young age; Berenstain Bears (the children books and chapter books), The Boxcar Children book series, even R.L. Stine’s Gossebumps book series, and the list goes on. Education and good grades was important in our family and my parents did everything they could to empower us in that.  We lived our childhood with not much to be boastful about.

My dad worked as a bricklayer for 25 years. He started as a bricklayer’s helper and then became a sub-contractor. He laid brick all over the new homes that were popping up in Copperfield and Fairfield in the 1990s. Immigration raids were popular then, so he would tell us stories of how they would hide inside the new homes as ICE (Immigration and Customs Enforcement) raided the new subdivision they were working in. Time and time again, he would go to work fearing that he may get caught. As a child, I often wondered who else would work long hours for low pay to build these homes if my dad and his construction crew were caught. My siblings and I went to school as U.S. born citizens with full rights, but every time my father would get stopped by a cop for a burned out headlight or for going over 10 miles per hour over the speed limit, we would fear about what would happen to him. We would huddle up in the backseat and pray to the Jesus my parents taught us about.

My parents raised us in the church culture. They would teach us about God and instilled in us good values. My father was  greeter of the year once, another year he won the award for giving the most Bible Studies that year, he even wanted to plant a church in Cleveland, Tx. These are all stories I wish I had time to write down and share with everyone. My dad was a good man.

Dad holding his Bible, and me, going to a church service

Often, I would see him at home in the evenings after a hard day at work, leaning in to his Thompson reference Bible or Scofield reference Bible, reading the notes on a particular passage of Scripture. Imagine a man trying to figure out tough theological views when he had only gone to school for less than a year of his life (and I don’t mean college).

In the early 2000s, my father was disillusioned with life and we witness his downfall. It was the darkest moments of our lives. He gave in to alcohol and he did not abide by the law. One day he ran a red light and the police finally caught him. He served time and was deported to El Salvador. That was his punishment. No physical contact with his children, no seeing our weddings and graduation ceremonies. No seeing and holding his grandchildren. On and on and on. We must accept that. There are consequences for bad actions. But, we believe that enough time has passed.

My father has tried twice to re-enter this country illegally since then. There is no way (to our knowledge) that he could enter legally. The system gives a limited amount of visas to people from El Salvador and my father has a record of being here illegally. Twice, he has served more than 9 months in prison because he has tried to come back to us, his children. We’ve grieved as we’ve celebrated some events in the lives of my siblings and I. Not a week passes by when we don’t wish for our dad to experience life with us. A Caldo de Res at Taqueria Cancun on Gessner Rd., a coffee at some Starbucks, a walk in the park talking about life and stuff. Those are the things we pray for. Although, grief has come into our lives for the past few years, we stay firm in God’s will and are encouraged by the fact that God is in control of what He is doing and He sees us through suffering.

When my dad calls from jail, he usually dismisses himself telling me that he loves me and tells me to care for my wife. But tonight, in a sudden movement of the prison doors being opened, he had a split second to dismiss himself and just said what he has been praying for for a very long time, “I’ll see you tomorrow, son… I’ll see you tomorrow.” I so hope that would be true.