For those of you who are interested in Pine Ridge Indian Reservation, here’s a link to a paper I wrote for Napenasi.com, a blog I write for Nape Na Si, a mission organization that works on Pine Ridge:
Shaking Up the Blissful Ignorance:
I hope you’ll take the time to read it, and then more time to think about it, especially during this holiday season.
I’ll be writing more on this soon.
Enjoy, and, as always, thanks for reading!
Hey folks! Here are links to two new articles by me. I hope you enjoy ’em, and that they make you think. As always, thanks for reading!
On Thought and the Diet of Eagles
This Saturday is June 4th. It marks the 22nd anniversary of my marriage to the lovely and all-round-best-woman-on-earth, Jess, and the beginning of the 23rd year of her life sentence. Through it all, she has never complained, never whined, never asked for anything other than my love (and a new dog every once in a while). She has stood by me through thick and thin (okay, I was never really thin, but compared to now . . .). I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, if it weren’t for her, I’d either be dead or in prison by now. I honestly believe she was sent to me by God, who was apparently tired of having to spend so much time keeping my stupid ass alive.
She was been there for me through years of a sort of slow-motion nervous breakdown. She’s been there for my kids. She’s been there for my family. She has supported me, advised me wisely, and never hesitated to let me know when I’ve gotten out of control. In fact, she’s the only one who’s ever been able to stop me, once I start to spin. Even though she has often joked that she has absolutely no mothering instinct at all, she’s the most nurturing person I know. She used to make fun of me for giving away pictures to sad-sack kids at baseball tournaments, when the kid didn’t have the money, but she’s just as soft a touch.
I remember the first time I saw her, it was all I could do to keep from climbing through her window to introduce myself. She was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. Fortunately, for once, I showed some restraint, and it paid off. Of course, I pursued her relentlessly; I had to – she wasn’t playing hard-to-get, she really, really didn’t want to be got, at least not by me. She was the first woman I ever really tried to impress, and I’ve got to say, I failed miserably.
Even though I did completely fail to impress her, I did manage to make her laugh, and for once a woman was laughing with me and not at me (actually, it was, and still is, a little of both), but at least she was laughing. We’re still laughing together. We both intentionally say and do stupid things just to make the other laugh. She is my best friend, and I’m hers. I honestly believe that the two of us could live completely isolated from everyone else, and we’d be fine, as long as we had each other.
She’s still the most beautiful woman in the world to me, even if 22 years of living with me have taken a toll on her. I wouldn’t trade one night, or even an afternoon, with her for a month with Scarlett Johansson (which I’m sure will be a relief to both of them), or anyone else. My biggest fear in life is letting her down.
I first proposed to her in the middle of the night, over the phone from Italy, phenomenally drunk (me, not her). She was very understanding and told me to ask her again when I was sober. The next day, when I got up, I called her and asked her to marry me again. I think she was only surprised that I remembered I’d asked her. She told me to ask her again when I got home (she is many things, but one thing she’s never been is easy).
The third time proved to be the charm, and she said yes. We decided to get married in the base chapel, so we had to go to the Chaplain for counseling. I think it was supposed to be 5 or even 6 sessions. I was so angry after the first session (with the Chaplain, not Jess), that I was ready to just forget about a church wedding and go to the Justice of the Peace, or whatever it is they’ve got in England. Jess talked me down eventually, because she wanted a church wedding. After the second session, Jess was so angry (again, at the Chaplain, not me) she was ready to go to the J.P. Eventually I got her talked down, mostly because I was pretty sure that if we didn’t get married in a church, we’d both regret it. The third session began with the Chaplain telling us that we might as well just set a date and skip the rest of the sessions, because we were obviously determined to go through with it, no matter how big a mistake he thought we were making. That’s a confidence builder, I gotta say.
When we went to get the marriage licence, they asked if I’d ever been married before. I said I had, so they checked the divorce box. They asked her the same thing, and she said no. They asked her age. She told them she was 25. The woman nodded and said, “Ah, spinster.” I’m not kidding. They actually checked the box for spinster. Now that I think of it, Jess’ life has really been just an unending string of indignities since she met me.
I know that no marriage is perfect, and that every couple has rough times, but I honestly don’t ever recall us being unhappy. Sure, there have been tough times, but I’ve never felt anything less than overwhelming love for her, and never felt like her love for me was in question. Everything that’s ever come up, we’ve faced together, and we’ve never let anything come between us. She’s always been there for me, and I’ve tried to always be there for her.
If it sounds like I’m bragging, it’s because I am, about her, not about myself. I’m a pain in the ass, and I know it. She has always been the rock in our relationship, the one person I can always count on, and I’ve tried to be the same for her. The good times we’ve shared are too numerous to count, and the bad times too inconsequential to remember. I love her just as much today as the day we were married. I can’t even imagine my life without her, and I thank God for her every day.
To finish off this wildly inadequate tribute to the love of my life, I’ll add an essay I wrote for my prose class:
There are some places, some things in the world that demand you stop; stop rushing to the next place, stop worrying about the bills, stop stressing about everything, and just be there; the north rim of the Grand Canyon, the badlands of South Dakota, the night sky over the Indian Ocean or the Arizona desert, Loch Lomond and Glen Coe in Scotland, just to name a few. They are usually lonely places, the kind of place that makes you feel alone, even with a group, and yet strangely not alone, like you’re suddenly intimately connected to something infinitely bigger, wiser, stronger, and more kind and loving than you’re really equipped to understand. They sneak up on you when you least expect them, and become a part of you, forever.
It is June, 1994, and my wife Jess and I are on our honeymoon, touring around Ireland in her little Mazda pick-up truck. We’re doing all the usual touristy things; China and crystal shopping in Waterford, taking distillery tours, exploring the beautiful gardens and ruins of Blarney Castle (as well as standing in line to kiss the Blarney Stone, and, of course, buying the pictures), and drinking gallons of Guinness and whiskey at pubs crowded with tourists just like us. It is the best time of our lives (so far, anyway). We are young, healthy, and wildly in love.
As we drive out along the Dingle Peninsula, on the west coast, I’m in a kind of photographic frenzy; it is some of the most beautiful country I’ve ever seen. I’m like a starving man at a buffet, so intent on getting it all that I can’t take the time to really appreciate any of it fully.
At every wide spot in the road, I tell her, “Ooh, ooh, pull over baby, pull over!” like a three-year-old begging his mommy for candy in a grocery store checkout line.
“We just pulled over.”
“Well pull over again! We may never see this again!”
“It’s the same thing you just took a picture of.”
“Yeah, but it looks different from here. Besides, you’re driving, you’ll never see this if I don’t get a picture.”
“Okay, fine,” and she laughs at me for being an idiot, and at herself for indulging me, and pulls over and waits for me to jump out and walk back to where I’d originally asked her to pull over. Thankfully, she is driving very slowly, so I don’t have to walk far.
I take several pictures, using several different lenses and shutter speeds, then climb back in the truck and we pull back onto the road. Of course, within a quarter-mile, “Ooh, ooh, ooh, honey pull over . . .” and the whole thing starts again. Sometimes I win, sometimes she does, but really, we both win every time.
As we stutter through the countryside and up into the mountains, the road becomes narrower and narrower, with hairpin turns that force us to slow down even more and stop rubbernecking. On the east side of Conor Pass, there is a small car park with a beautiful view of the valley below. We stop and both get out to look. We have to be careful, as there isn’t a lot of room. If we’re not careful, we’ll find ourselves standing in the middle of the road. Behind us is a steep, boulder-strewn slope that looks to flatten out higher up. We climb up that slope, climbing from rock to rock, until we can peek over the top, and I feel God put his hand on my shoulder and say, “Look. Look what I made for you.” I am awestruck.
The plateau is a large bowl, holding a small lake of crystal-clear water like a beautiful secret. There are no signs down below, telling of its presence. It is a surprise reserved for only those adventuresome enough to climb this slope out of curiosity, or the desire for a better view of the valley below. And what a view it is; the broad valley stretched out below, lush and green, the kind of green you only get in Ireland, crisscrossed by ancient stone walls, holding at least three lakes, and bounded by more mountains, stretching off to the Atlantic Ocean in the distance. The valley is even more gentle and pastoral in contrast to the boulder-strewn ruggedness of the highlands we stand on. We sit on a rock by that little lake for some time, not even talking, just happy to be here in this place together. Jess takes her shoes off and soaks her feet for a bit. There may be other people up here, in fact, there probably are, but, in this place, they are reduced to mere wraiths, flitting on the edge of our consciousness, barely registering to us, and I’m sure we’re the same to them. I don’t remember anything but Jess and I, and the lake, and the countryside. We have never just been anywhere, as completely as we are here. We sit here, unwilling to break the spell, time seeming to stand as still as ourselves.
Sadly, time is not standing still after all. The sky has become overcast, the clouds are lowering, and we still have to get over the top of the pass, now shrouded in the clouds. As we work our way down the slope, I pause to take a picture of the valley below. The sunlight has found a hole in the clouds, and a single beam shoots through, illuminating the lakes in the now shadowed valley. That picture hangs on the wall in our kitchen, and I pass it dozens of times a day, almost always pausing to look at it and remember that day.
On the way down the slope, we happen upon a small, actually tiny, waterfall. Jess sits down on a rock next to it, and I take her picture. I will use that picture as a bookmark for years. It’s probably still in one of my books somewhere, and I’ll find it again someday. In the picture, she looks the way I still see her, beautiful and happy, with a gorgeous Mary Tyler Moore smile that never fails to make my heart beat a little harder.
We make it over the pass without a problem, and on down the mountain to the village of Dingle, a lovely little town with live traditional Irish music in nearly every pub. The next day, we take a dolphin-watching boat ride, along with dozens of other tourists, in the harbor, and drive the tourist-burdened road around the Slea Head loop, visit prehistoric forts and miles of beautiful coastline, but after Conor Pass, they all feel a little touristy and anti-climactic. On our way out of Dingle, we stop at Conor Pass once again, and feel the same magic as before.
We follow that up with a visit to the Cliffs of Moher, and a drive through the Burren. The Cliffs of Moher bring much the same feeling as Conor Pass, but it is too crowded, and just too immense. Our attention is split between the cliffs, and the tourists crawling up to the edge, wondering which one is going to fall off first. The Burren, with its weird, other-worldly landscape and prehistoric dolmen, or tombs, also brings those feelings, but it is so unsettlingly strange, and almost sinister, that it is just a bit like seeing what happens when God gets angry. Impressive and wonderful, yes, but also ominous and haunting. If the Cliffs of Moher are a big, flashy gift to the world and the Burren is a warning glance from a stern parent, then Conor Pass is a gentle, warm, and loving hug from your daddy.
We will return at least twice after this first trip, once around our tenth anniversary, and then again for our twentieth. Both times we have either friends or family with us, and it affects them all the same way. The last time, we find a girl skinny-dipping while her boyfriend sits on the shore watching. It’s funny and a little bit awkward, but it is also fitting; after all, what could be more appropriate in that rugged Eden than a pretty nymph unselfconsciously enjoying, and being a part of, all that beauty? At least, in my mind she is pretty; we politely keep our distance. To tell the truth, I envy them. Jess and I are too conventional, too inhibited to allow ourselves that kind of freedom, that kind of joy, and to be honest, the sight of me skinny-dipping would certainly mar the sense of wonder for any other passers-by, so it’s probably just as well.
The wonderful thing about these lonely places is that, once you’ve been there, they become a part of you. All you have to do to visit them again is think about them, and you’re there again, feeling their magic for the first time, again, and again, and again. They become your “happy place”.
On our second trip, I take a new picture of Jess by that little waterfall, to replace the bookmark one. In it, she’s ten years older, ten years heavier, but her smile is just as bright and joyful as it is on our honeymoon. Although the years of living with me have taken a visible toll on her, she is just as beautiful as the day I met her. She has a magic of her own that affects me the same way Conor Pass does. Every time I look at her, it’s as if God lays his hand on my shoulder and says, “Look. Look at what I made for you.” Conor Pass may be our happy place, but Jess is mine.
The hard-driving and long-suffering Jess and I got home from a mission trip to Pine Ridge Indian Reservation last Saturday night at about 11:00 p.m. I won’t kid you, it was a tough trip, starting about 3 days before we left. Trying to get everything packed into that trailer and my truck is always a challenge, not just because we take a lot of camping gear, but because of the enormous amount of stuff, both clothing and food, that people donate for us to take out there.
The amount of donations is both awesome and terrible. Awesome because people are so generous and eager to help. Many who have never gone on the trip have been our most consistent supporters, and many, I know, have truly given until it hurts, and God bless ’em for it.
It is terrible because we have so much to give, and so many of the Lakota have so little. None of us back here in Indiana think of ourselves as rich, at least nobody I know of. Most of us consider ourselves middle- or at worst, lower-middle-class (although late at night, when we’re lying sleepless in bed worrying about bills, or our kids’ college, or is our car going to make it another year, it’s awfully easy to secretly suspect we don’t even qualify for upper-lower-class).
Until we get out there, that is. Nothing makes you feel rich like going to the Rez. It’s a real eye-opener, especially the 1st time. We pull up to do our VBS at the playgrounds, and see the grass and weeds anywhere from ankle- to knee-high, and full of ticks, trash, snakes, and who knows what else. We see the basketball court covered with glass from so many broken liquor bottles that it looks like the court is paved with diamonds sparkling in the sun, and the shattered, and frequently shotgunned backboards. All surrounded by shabby, graffiti-scarred government-built houses with yards, some weed-strewn and unkempt, some as neatly maintained as any back home, some surrounded by field fence, some fortified with barbed-wire.
Someone once asked me why some of them will mow their own yard, but not just go on and mow the playground. I asked them, if you lived there, and are lucky enough to have a mower that works, and lucky enough to have a job so you can afford gas for the mower, and are motivated enough to give your own kids a decent, relatively safe place to play, would you take a chance on destroying your equipment and not be able to take care of your own kids’ needs, just to be a nice guy?
How many of us when we’re home go mow or maintain rundown public lands, or even our neighbors’ yards, or do we just bitch about why doesn’t the city or our neighbor do something about that damn dump? Why should we expect more from them than we do from ourselves?
And then the kids show up, and you kind of forget what a nasty place it must be to live. They are so excited to see us, and especially those of us who’ve made this trip before. They are so grateful and hungry for the attention that it breaks your heart and uplifts it all at the same time. They just can’t seem to get enough. A kid will often pick out one of us and stick like glue. In many ways, it’s like they’re starved for human contact. Although some of them (especially the older ones) want to run and play games, it seems like most just want piggy-back rides, or to sit and talk with us while they draw with sidewalk chalk or do crafts, or they just want to be held, to be touched in a wholesome, loving way.
Of course, it’s not all beauty and light and Mr. Rodger’s Neighborhood with the kids either. Just like our kids, some of them will test you. They want to see if you’re willing to put your money where your mouth is. They know that it’s easy for us to come out there and fling Jesus at them, and make ourselves feel good about ourselves for playing with the “poor little indian kids”. They want (and need) to be loved, not patronized. So they push you to see if you’re the real deal. There’s nothing like the look on the face of a white middle-class, middle-aged housewife and mother after being told to “go F%&@ yourself” by a 6-year-old. They’ll swipe your stuff and taunt you with it. A favorite trick is to get you to let them take a picture of you with your phone. Then, you’ve got to spend maybe 15 minutes, maybe an hour trying to get them to give it back. They want to see if you’ll get mad. They want to see what’s really more important to you, your rich white-guy stuff or your words about Jesus.
Their teenagers like to challenge ours, especially the boys. They love sports, like most kids, and take great pleasure in schooling our guys. They will often try intimidation, to see what our boys will do. It’s a tough position for a teenage boy. If you back down, you’re a pussy, but if you don’t, are you being a christian? Does being a Christian equate to being a pussy? It’s a complicated theological question for a teenage boy in the middle of a pick-up basketball game. There’s also the possibility that if you come back too strong that you’re going to be Custer (although given the pitiful state of history instruction in our schools, there’s very little chance of any of our kids even knowing who Custer was. You can bet the Lakota kids do though.)
Usually, the testing dies off after the 1st day or two. Often the kids who tested you the most are the ones who are most upset at the end of the week when you have to leave.
Speaking of our piss-poor education in our own history, it always kinda cracks me up when I’m telling someone about the trip, and they ask me, “Do they still live in Teepee’s?” and stuff like that. It’s not just kids either. It’s educated adults who often ask this. It’s not just a question of education, it’s a matter of complete and utter disregard and neglect of these people by the entire nation. Nobody ever asks do Hawaiians live in grass huts or if Eskimo’s still live in igloos. I’ve actually stood on the Reservation, talking to whites passing through, and been asked, “Are there Indians around here?”
The ignorance of whites about conditions on Indian Reservations, and about Indians in general, is really shocking to me, even though I know I shouldn’t be surprised. Isolation is exactly why we put the reservations where they are. We looked around after taking everything worth taking from them, and, not having the heart to just exterminate them outright, benevolently “gave” them the most worthless bits of land we could find. At least until we found out there was something underneath that worthless ground that we did want, like uranium. Even then, we didn’t make them move, we just went in, took what we wanted, and left them poisoned water sources by way of thanks.
We cheated them, killed them, poisoned them, crushed them and penned up those who were left, to be further cheated, poisoned, and exploited. We did everything we could to make them helpless and dependent on us so we could do what we wanted without resistance, and now many of us have the nerve to talk about those lucky Indians with their government checks and casinos, and shame on them for being drunk, stoned, lazy, and unemployed. I mean what’s wrong with those people? You’d think they’d be eager to learn our ways now that we’ve shown them how awesome we are. Didn’t we even carve our presidents heads into their holy land, just as a constant reminder?
Sorry, I get a little carried away. It’s been said of the Lakota that they were a stone-age people who were unable to even discover the wheel, but that is simply not true. They knew about the wheel centuries ago. Their whole world was a wheel. The sky was a circle, the earth was a ball, even their homes were circular. The plains Indians even made wheels, like the Medicine Wheel in Wyoming. The difference is, that, while we use the wheel to move our stuff around, have to have the wheel, because we have so much stuff, to the Lakota, the wheel anchored their world. The entire earth was their wheel and wagon, and provided everything they needed. They didn’t need the wooden wheel. They lived in their wagon and it provided everything they needed. They didn’t need to take so much stuff with them because they never left the source of their stuff, and didn’t need anything it didn’t provide.
We took that away from them. We took away their wheel and gave them little squares and boxes, with lots of nice sharp corners. Boxes to live in, squares to live on. Imaginary boundaries on a boundless plain. It took the Catholic Church roughly 300 years to accept that the world was round (1492-1822), yet we expected the Lakota (among others) to accept that it was square in roughly 50. Once again, I digress.
Back to the mission trip. This year, we were a bit more disorganized than usual. The last few years, we’ve adopted the philosophy that we’ll go out there with a very loose plan, and be ready to do whatever work God sent our way. This year, we really had no plan at all. The Tennessee group who usually goes out the week following us had to go the same week as us. They are a lot more numerous, and better organized than we are, so it was decided that we’d just follow their lead, and help them out where needed. It turned out, they didn’t really need us. Those guys really have it going on. We expected to help them build a playground set and shelter at Potato Creek. We got there on Monday, saw what they were doing and realized we’d literally just be in their way. Those guys were good.
I think that our VBS/Street Ministry teams were more useful, just because it meant more attention to each kid. The only part of our trip that was unaffected was the Adult Ministry. Still, God sent us plenty of opportunities.
Dave McCoy, Caleb Carithers, and I were driving back to camp one afternoon when we passed a young woman walking along the road with a bunch of little kids, out in the middle of nowhere. We stopped and asked if they needed a ride, and she said they were going to Kyle. That’s about 20 miles from where we met her. Since we camp just outside of Kyle, we offered her a lift. We figured she was going to stay with someone there, but she said she was just going to Kyle to get diapers for her babies. She had 5 little kids with her, the oldest being about 4 or 5, and it was obvious that she’d set out for Kyle a little too late for at least one of the littlest ones
When we got to Kyle, we stopped at the grocery, and Caleb went into the store with her and got them all something to drink. Then we took her over to the police station to get the diapers, which seemed odd to us, but hey, it’s the Rez. There was no one there, so we invited her to dinner at the camp. We took her out there, and had dinner with her and her kids. After dinner we invited her to stay for devotions with us, but she wanted to get her kids home, so we loaded her down with diapers, wipes, leftovers, etc. and Troy Beckner gave them and another Native family a ride home.
Well, this is really getting long, so I’ll wrap it up with this. I get asked frequently if we’re doing any good, if we’re making any kind of difference out there, and I never really know what to say. I think we do. I know that helping people is good. Putting a smile on a sad little kid’s face is good. Putting a warm meal in a hungry kid’s belly is good. Giving desperately poor people the basics for survival, even if it’s only enough for a day or two is good. Giving people a safe place for their kids to play, or for them to camp while they worship is good. Making friends with the isolated and neglected is good. These good things are good not only for the Lakota, but for us as well.
As far as making a difference, I hope we do, but I know that if we do, it’s only because God takes our pitiful, inefficient, flailing efforts and uses them for his purposes.
Well, I guess that’s about it. Don’t worry, I’ll be back to writing stupid stuff about embarrassing bodily functions soon.
For those of you interested in learning more about any of this, just google Pine Ridge Indian Reservation.
Here are a few links to help you get started.
www.redcloudschool.org/reservation
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pine_Ridge_Indian_Reservation
I love Ireland. I’ve been there 3 times now (I’m not bragging, but…OK, I’m bragging), and I plan to go back as soon as I can. There’s a lot to love about it. Guinness (it tastes much better over there), Jameson’s Whiskey (tastes the same, but who cares?), friendly people, live music in pubs, beautiful scenery, the greenest green you’ve ever seen, and so much cool stuff. Here are a few of my favorites:
Blarney Castle – It’s a little touristy (OK, a lot touristy), but it is a really cool castle ruin, and the grounds and gardens are beautiful.
The Cliffs of Moher – Amazing scenery. Really no other way to describe them. Just amazing.
Conor Pass – On Dingle Peninsula, west coast of Ireland. Once again, amazing views, especially if you hit it on a sunny day. There’s a pull-out on the east side of the pass. Park there and climb up the mountain, there’s a small lake hidden in a bowl up there. It’s not too bad a climb if you’re reasonably careful. Be careful on the drive over the pass and down to the village of Dingle. It’s very windy, and a one-lane road for much of the way (not one lane going each way, one lane period), and often foggy, but a beautiful and fun drive.
Cong – A quaint little village. Most famous for being the village where Director John Ford shot the exteriors for the John Wayne classic, The Quiet Man. The entire village seems to make its living from that movie. There are Quiet Man Walking Tours, at least two Quiet Man gift shops, a Quiet Man museum, etc. It’s a must-see if you’re a fan of the movie, but even if you’re not (and if you’re not there’s obviously something wrong with you), it’s a lovely little village with lots to see.
The Connemara Loop – A beautiful drive, even better if you stop frequently, get out of the car, do a little light climbing, and look around.
Slea Head Drive – Another beautiful drive around (if I’m not mistaken) the westernmost point of Europe. The loop starts in the village of Dingle.
Of course, these are just a few of the amazing things to see in Ireland. If you ever get a chance to go, don’t pass it up.
