Mission Trip to Cuatro Ciénegas: Ripple Effects
Camino de San José: Lessons from Cuatro Ciénegas
We covered a lot of ground the last day. Not all of it looked meaningful in the moment.
By the time Saturday arrived, it felt like we had been in Cuatro Ciénegas much longer than a few days. No complaints from me. I love those trips where one moment leads naturally into the next.
We began at dawn with Fr. Brandenburg leading a small group hiking up a rocky ridge near the Tierra Maria vineyard. The trail involved a fair amount of bouldering over large rocks and a steep ascent.
Fr. Brandenburg set the pace. He might be younger than us, but having survived a heart attack, cancer, and more mission trips than I could count, he clearly wasn’t inclined to slow things down. Racing against sunrise, the quicker hikers disappeared further up the path out of sight, leaving more cautious folks like me bringing up the rear and pretending that was a deliberate choice.
Between every rock or scrub brush clump, cactus of every variety seemed to be waiting. I couldn’t tell you their names, except they all looked like a good way to go home hurt, so I went slowly, scrambling over loose rocks and carefully avoiding both the tall dramatic cacti and the smaller varieties hiding quietly at ankle level, all of them ready to ruin my morning. At that rate, I had plenty of time to savor the details and occasionally question my life choices.
By the time we reached the top of the ridge, the sun was rising over the vineyard and spreading light across the valley, including a mountain formation called the sleeping man, which looked remarkably like the profile of a man lying down.
We continued higher and peered down into a natural vent where warm, humid air with a faint sulfur smell drifted up from somewhere deep underground. Plants grew thickly around the opening, fed by whatever mysterious chemistry was happening beneath the surface.
The way down turned out to be the more dangerous part. Loose dirt and shifting rocks, thick with cactus, turned the trail into something closer to a desert obstacle course. Every step required a small negotiation.
About halfway down, my foot slid on loose gravel and I landed squarely on my backside, which felt both sudden and completely predictable. A few sympathetic laughs from somewhere above confirmed I was not alone in my struggle for dignity.
The bruise has reminded me of that hike every time I sit down. Others collected their own souvenirs, including scrapes and impressively large cactus needles lodged in shoes like tiny booby traps.
The desert may not be empty, but it certainly practices self defense.
Even that morning, it felt like the day was already unfolding in layers, one experience leading quietly into another.
Back at the hotel, we changed clothes and headed to breakfast, where a bountiful buffet of local dishes felt especially well-earned after the hike. It was another small shift, from effort to rest, from scrambling over rocks to sitting down together, and it fit right into the rhythm the week had taken on. Food always tastes better when you’ve done something active first.
Saturday was our final day working on Carmen’s house. Friends stopped by throughout the morning to see the progress. Each visitor stepped inside, took it in, and commented on how good the house looked and how clean it felt. Carmen beamed. It was a small thing, fresh paint and a cleared space, but it mattered. You could see it in her face.
After the visit from the St. Joseph group, we hugged Carmen goodbye. She seemed lighter, more ready to face whatever came next. We’ve been praying for her and her family.
Later, we heard something unexpected had happened at the house the other half of our group had been working on. On the first day, a neighbor had watched them painting the exterior walls. She wandered over and asked, “Can I hire you to paint my house too?”
Our friends laughed and explained that no, we weren’t being paid, and we wouldn’t be there long enough to take on another project. By the third day, they noticed two young men painting her house. She had seen what was possible next door and decided to make it happen herself.
That one act of care didn’t stay contained. It moved next door. And from there, who knows how far it will go.
Next, our group headed out to explore more of the surrounding landscape.
We stopped first at a set of gypsum sand dunes where the sand is bright white and incredibly fine. The top layer warms in the sun, but just beneath it the sand stays cool. Standing barefoot there felt like stepping into powdered sugar. It was another reminder that this place kept revealing more than it first appeared to offer.
Later we visited a private mineral pond where the water shimmered deep blue under the afternoon sun. Our hosts had prepared box lunches at shaded picnic tables beside the water, and a few inflatable floats made it easy to drift lazily across the pond, ignoring everything our mothers ever told us about waiting an hour after eating before swimming. Even rest felt intentional, like part of the rhythm of the week.
The water was warm and incredibly clear, so clear you could see fish moving below the surface as we floated. Before long a few people had pulled out snorkel masks to get a closer look. This place is often described as a desert oasis, home to species found nowhere else, and swimming there felt like the perfect reward.
Reluctantly we left the warm pond and returned to town for a father–child event taking place in a large gymnasium, part of the Plan 2040 fatherhood initiative we had been learning about all week.
When we walked in, a group of dads and their young daughters were practicing dance routines together. The tiny ballerinas stretched and posed with their dads in pairs, and everyone was learning together, even the dads who struggled with flexibility or balance. No one seemed particularly concerned about getting it perfect. The smiles and laughter needed no translation.
On the other side of the gym, someone had set up a volleyball net for a group of middle school girls holding a team practice.
A few of us wandered over, and before long we were pulled into an enthusiastic, not especially skilled, game of volleyball with a group of very determined athletes. Our toddler-level Spanish wasn’t much help, so we relied on pointing, laughter, and a steady exchange of high fives. That seemed to be enough.
The girls were all in.
At the end, they came over to thank us. Maria Ines, one of the fluent Spanish speakers of our group, helped interpret. “Thank you for playing,” they said. “We felt like professional players. We finally got to play a real volleyball game. Can you come back next week and play with us again?”
That part was harder. We told them we were leaving the next day, though more than a few of us would have gladly come back if we could. Their excitement had drawn us in, and we were grateful just to be part of it. We had come to help, but once again, we found ourselves receiving something we hadn’t expected.
Later that evening we attended Mass in Spanish before heading to one final surprise. Dinner that night was a culinary tour of Mexico, five courses inspired by dishes from different regions of the country, each one explained as it was served.
By the end of the meal, it was hard to believe that less than three days earlier we had been running through an airport in Chicago, and our new friends at the table had been strangers. The trip had been short, but filled to the brim in ways that are hard to measure. We had bonded through conversations, service, laughter, and small moments that didn’t seem important at the time, but stayed with us anyway.
Life in Cuatro Ciénegas would continue in ways we would probably never see. For a few days, we had been part of the story. And like the neighbor who decided to paint her own house after watching the work next door, maybe the small things we had done would keep moving outward in ways none of us could measure.
That’s the thing about ripple effects. You rarely get to see how far they travel. This time, we caught a glimpse of the first circles widening.
This is part of a series about our mission trip to Cuatro Ciénegas, Mexico.
Previous: The Desert is not Empty
Next: The Long Journey Home
Kelly Brakenhoff is the author of 17 books and a seasoned ASL interpreter. She splits her writing energy between two series: cozy mysteries set on a college campus and children’s books featuring Duke the Deaf Dog.
In 2025, two of her children’s books were selected for the CBC Favorites Award Lists, honored by teachers and librarians nationwide for excellence in children’s literature. Parents, kids, and educators love the Duke the Deaf Dog books and activity guides because they introduce ASL and the Deaf community through engaging stories.
And if you enjoy a smart female sleuth, want to learn more about Deaf culture, or have lived in a place where livestock outnumber people, the Cassandra Sato Mystery series will have you connecting the dots faster than a group project thrown together the night before it’s due.
A proud mom to four adults, head of the dog-snuggling department, and grandma to a growing brood of perfectly behaved grandkids, Kelly and her husband call Nebraska home.