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“We believe everybody deserves to be treated with dignity and respect,” said Sister JoAnn Persch, 90.

As she sat next to Sister Pat Murphy, 95, in their two-bedroom apartment in Alsip, a suburb south of Chicago, her voice broke. “To hear the verbiage, what they call immigrants, it’s just very hard,” she said. “We’re worried and our families are very worried.”

After the COVID-19 pandemic eased, the sisters were on the verge of retirement. That changed in 2022 when thousands of immigrants were bused from the U.S.-Mexico border to Chicago; they felt called back into action.

The sisters initially took in one family — a single mother from Sierra Leone with five children. But the need was great. Soon after, the sisters had 17 apartments filled with 17 asylum-seeking families and a new nonprofit to fund the ongoing operation, known as Catherine's Caring Cause.

They’ve housed 25 families over the past three years — paying rent and utilities for a year, offering food assistance, providing connections to legal help.

Zuleika, who arrived with her husband, Oscar, and son Josafat, 14, just over a year ago, squeezed Murphy with a gentle, lengthy hug during a recent visit to the sisters’ apartment.

Zuleika and Oscar recalled the threats made to their family and their challenging decision to flee Central America for the United States. Out of fear for their personal safety, they spoke on the condition The Associated Press would only use their first names.

Once in Chicago, they stayed in a migrant shelter for about six months before finding Catherine’s Caring Cause.

“Their impact on our lives has been really big, huge,” said Oscar of the sisters.

“They picked us up with all our belongings. They took us to the apartment. They furnished it, they gave us food.”

The sisters have even accompanied them to court, Oscar said.

And they’ve grown close, bonding over their shared Christian faith.

“This was not a coincidence. This was God who allowed that meeting and for them to help us with everything we’ve been through,” Oscar said.

Each family aided by CCC has applied for asylum, which must be filed before the one-year anniversary of their border crossing. Most, like Zuleika and Oscar, have their work permits, which can only be applied for five months after filing for asylum.

And although these families have taken the necessary steps to be in the country legally, there is still fear.

“With everything we’re seeing ... even someone with asylum is a little afraid on the street,” Oscar said.

Before Trump’s inauguration, it was announced that Chicago would be “ground zero” for raids and deportation. The sisters and other local faith organizations handed out “know your rights” packets and cards in both English and Spanish. Trainings were held at and via Zoom.

In the first weeks of the , the sisters said many of their families kept children home from school and avoided going to work. The sisters told many of them to avoid attending church.

“We told our families we’re preparing you for the worst. But we’re hoping and praying for the best,” Persch said.

On a recent frigid Friday morning, Sister JoAnn sat outside the entrance of the Immigration and Customs Enforcement staging and processing center in Broadview, Illinois. Covered with a thin blanket, she clutched her red rosary beads with gloved hands, smiling widely.

She and roughly 20 other people — including union activists, lawyers and members of the Chicago Archdiocese — gathered at the facility for a “day of prayer,” an act of defiance and advocacy she and Murphy have done for over two decades.

“Friday is the day of deportation for many,” said immigration lawyer Royal Berg, who started the prayer gathering in the early 2000s.

A large photo of Our Lady of Guadalupe hung from the metal railing of a wheelchair ramp behind the group. Their combined breath shone in the morning light as they formed a tight oval around Sister JoAnn, who spoke briefly before the prayer.

“We got to keep in the struggle. This is a unique time, and we’re all needed,” she said, her right hand clenched in a fist.

They started promptly at 7:15 a.m. and for the next 20 minutes prayed the rosary in English and Spanish, chanted, “Sí se puede!” in unison and sang “We Shall Overcome.”

Persch and Murphy met in the 1960s while opening a Catholic school in Wisconsin as young nuns with the Sisters of Mercy. In their early days, they bonded over the grunt work they were assigned, their desire to help people in need, and a familiar song they learned in high school, “For Christ the King."

It was only a year later that they were separated, Murphy moving to Peru and Persch to Chicago. Years later they had both shed their cumbersome habits, but not the habit of helping those less fortunate. This was the beginning of their long-lasting partnership.

“To have a team that had the same values, same drive and you can bounce things off. ... That’s been extremely helpful,” said Persch, crediting teamwork for much of their success.

Through the decades, they’ve been arrested for peacefully protesting in Washington as “Catholics for Dreamers,” for the migrant children dying in detention camps, and in front of a nuclear test site in Nevada.

They’ve even helped change state law, partnering with the Illinois Coalition for Immigrant and Refugee Rights on a bill that would allow religious workers into detention facilities and jails. This eventually led the state to block jails from working with Immigration and Customs Enforcement.

In February, the Trump administration sued the city of Chicago as part of its recent crackdown on so-called sanctuary cities. Chicago has some of the nation’s strongest laws limiting cooperation between local police and federal immigration agents, making it a target.

“Ours was a ministry of presence,” Persch said. The sisters and fellow volunteers would pray with those detained in places like McHenry County Jail in Illinois, eventually traveling to Wisconsin to do the same work. They often put $10 in commissary accounts and would pass information to families on the outside.

Their work has also inspired organizations like , a home for young men ages 18 to 25 who fled their homelands alone because of violence.

“We provide them with opportunities for education, medical, mental health treatment. We make sure each kid has a lawyer,” said Corey Brost, a priest and executive director of Viator House.

Bethany House of Hospitality was started shortly after, providing similar services for young women.

"Sisters Pat and JoAnn are like the grandmothers of Viator House,” said Brost, who helped co-found the nonprofit with Brother Michael Gosch in 2017. Gosch had previously worked with the sisters at Su Casa Catholic Worker, where they aided survivors of torture from Central America.

“Their spirit fills this program and everything we do,” Brost said.

As they look to the future, the sisters continue to be led by Scripture, like Matthew 25:35, which includes, “I was a stranger, and you invited me in.”

They’re motivated by the advocacy of Pope Francis, recalling his message that the immigrant “is your brother. You can’t just walk past him. You have to respond.”

And they’re inspired by young people.

In recent weeks, they spoke with students at Mount Carmel High School, an all-boys Catholic school in Chicago.

Persch recalled being asked, “At your age, what keeps you going?” To which she responded, “If not us, who? If not now, when? This is our family. So, when one part of the family’s hurting, we’re all hurting.”

The sisters no longer oversee some of the organizations they started. But the work continues through mentors, volunteers and trained staff.

As for Catherine’s Caring Cause, they have no doubt that it will continue once they no longer can.

“I’m not worried at all about that,” Persch said. “I’m worried about the future of immigration. Period.”

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AP journalist Melissa Perez Winder contributed to this report.

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