Interview with the....Peter.

Current view of the front porch of our building and the parking lot...snow!

My friend Peter sent me an email this morning asking me a couple of questions about life here, so I thought I'd share my answers with you all.  They seem like questions that many of you would ask.  Peter asked me to blog about another topic, comparing my experiences of living in Occupied Palestine to living on the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation, and I'm still working that one out in my head.  So, here you go, Peter!




How's life on the rez?
Life on the rez is good.  Things are feeling better these days.  I don't know if I've finally adjusted more or stopped resisting the move...or what, but life feels a bit more normal.  I had a rough couple of weeks where I felt really out of sorts and like I wasn't "clicking" here.  I should add that I am hyper self-aware, so I was still happy to be here and doing my work well, but I didn't feel as in-sync as I would have liked.  I told my friend Vance the other day that since the last three months have shown me a lot of negatives, I'm hoping to pick up on more positives.  We went to a Christmas program yesterday where I watched some of our young people perform different songs, including Jingle Bells in Lakota.  Awesome, right??!!

Is rez politically correct?I'm not sure.  People here use it a lot.  One of the pastors in town wrote a book called "Rez Ramblings."  So, I guess people use it.  Someone told me recently that I have a "rez car."  A lot of the cars around town are missing windows, including the front windshield, or seem to be held together by tape and bungee cords.  "Rez car" doesn't sound like a compliment.  Though, there are plenty of really nice cars around town--brand new SUVs, Lexus models, etc.  I hope that they're describing my 2000 Chevy Cavalier as one of those rez cars.

Speaking of being PC, do people prefer to be called Indians?
Good question!  A lot of people call themselves Indians here.  Most say Indians and non-Indians or Indians and Wasichu (white people, but it really means "The one who takes all the meat.")  I appreciate the irony when I, the vegetarian, am called Wasichu.  I try to use "Natives" and "Lakota" when possible, but it always feels really awkward in conversations with the community here.  There are a lot of sweatshirts around that say "Native Pride" and most formal things use "Lakota" or "Native."

Have you been un-PC so far?
Have I been un-PC?  I'm not sure what that means exactly.  I use "Indians" in conversations, since that's what people around me are using.  I still use "Native" or "Lakota" mostly when talking to non-Natives.  As with most titles, I find that the way a person uses it or the feelings behind how they use it determine the meaning, more than the word itself.  The same goes for "rez."  It's one thing for a bunch of 70 year-old grandmas to talk about themselves being "old Indians," but it's another for the US Government to call them Indians.  This may sound like a double-standard, but part of being in a community of people means that you determine what language you want used for that community and that use for yourself.  Before moving here, I really got into a habit of calling myself a Euro-American.  This isn't to deny that I am a white person by color-definitions, even though I can get a mean sunburn.  It's to acknowledge that I identify myself as having Euro-American heritage.  The way that I process the world comes from a point of being a third and fourth-generation immigrant from Europe.  This is different than someone who has had family in the United States for centuries and from someone who is first generation.  Here, to call myself Euro-American, seems almost silly.  The Lakota community knows that I am not Indian.  It's pretty clear.  In fact, the word wasichu is so often used in my presence, that I start to resent it.  It's made me think a lot about how words and titles define and separate people from circles.  My supervisor and I led a funeral a few weeks ago.  My supervisor checked in with the family and decided that we would wait until a certain few family members arrived before starting it.  One of the drummers had volunteered to act as the sort of MC, which is common at wakes and funerals here.  Since the service was scheduled to start at 2pm, my supervisor went to ask him if everyone had shown up at 2:15pm.  He announced to the whole crowd that we were on "white people time, so we better get moving!"  My supervisor and I were in no rush, but our race was pointed out as to the reason why she was checking on family.  I don't think it's a negative thing here, that my race is identified so openly, but it still makes me a little uncomfortable.  It is what it is though.  In a community where the wasichu have taken all the meat and where the white people continue to break promises with the Indians, then yes, I am an outsider.  Yes, my skin resembles the people who have torn the land from the hands of my neighbors' ancestors and continue to take it out of their hands today.  It makes me uncomfortable to be called white and wasichu all the time, because the history is uncomfortable and nasty.

Well, big thanks to Peter for some good questions that made me think and I hope provided some thoughts for y'all to mull over.  

My. Friends. Are. Awesome.

My friends are awesome.  Really. 

1.)  Vance helped get Google to add Cherokee to their languages.  Check out the blog post here.

2.)  Kelly sent me the the aforementioned Vicar of Dibley boxed set.  Lady pastors rock.

3.)    Alex sent me the COOLEST card ever.  It included the parking sticker from our last adventure together in Chicago.  You pay for parking in Chicago at these little machines and then it prints a sticker with the time it expires.  Our last adventure was heading to the Signature Lounge at the Hancock Building.  Sometimes, in the middle of nowhere, South Dakota, I really miss living in the city and coming up with great adventures with one of my best friends.

4.)    Sara, Ashley, Justin and Ryan made this cool video about donating blood at LSTC.  Sweet, right???!!  The ELCA is lucky to have such talented folks around.

5.)    Katie is forcing me to take some “me” time.  She wants me to watch two episodes of Honey Boo Boo Child (don’t judge me) and turn my brain off for a bit.  I haven't watched the episodes yet, but I am getting better at taking "me" time.   

I could probably list 200 friends here who have been awesome in one way or another, whether in supporting me in particular, or just making this world a better place. 

Y’all are fantastic.  J

Your finger prints are everywhere…

The title of this post is from The Hippo Song.  If you don’t have the pleasure of knowing this ridiculous tune, it goes like this:

In the beginning God made the seas and the forests filled with trees.  God stacked the mountains up so high, and above it all, God placed a sky.  God’s fingerprints are everywhere, just to show us that God cares.  And in the middle, God had some fun.  Made a hippo that weighs a ton.  Hip-hip-hippopotamus.  Hip-hip-hooray, God made all of us!

I love this silly song, complete with ridiculous hand motions, because it really names some of the cool things that God has created.  I am always in awe of where I see God creating today, especially when God is creating through precious little fingerprints.

One of my favorite things about working with kids is that they are the best artists.  I was so pleased the first time that one of the kids gave me a piece of art—a purple construction paper piece, similar to a paper snowflake—that I promised him I would hang it on my apartment door.  Since I live in the Retreat Center, my apartment is right off of the community kitchen.  In fact, my door is seen easily from the front door.  As soon as you step inside the center, you can see my door decorated with now a gallery of children’s art.  With each day that goes on, more and more sacred art is created and placed into my hands by a smaller set of hands.  I promise each one of them that their art will end up on my door. 

I am so thankful for each of these little creations that end up on my door.

As you can see from the picture, there are a few pieces that are in the “gallery” which were not created by young artists.  The first one you may notice is a sign that says “Quarantine.”  This was a gift from Alicia and Trish, one of the other center employees.  My bug bites have continued for over two months now, so they decided to secretly hang this sign on my door to guard others against my ailment.  It’s all in good fun.

The other non-art piece is a quote that I printed and hung on the door.  The quote is by an Aborginal woman regarding missionaries.  She said, “If you have come to help me, you are wasting your time.  But if you have come because your liberation is bound up in mine, then let us walk together.”  Following my time with ELCA Global Mission, I’ve become very passionate about “mission” and how we see our relationship with others.  If we, and specifically, retreat groups, come into the Reservation with the intention to “fix” things or to simply provide food, clothing, money, etc, because they want to help, then we need to move along and help ourselves.  If we instead look at our own responsibility to our sisters and brothers, our interconnectedness, our shackles of commitment to one another, then we enter into relationship with one another, knowing that when we walk together, we are one common people, God’s creation, seeking understanding and healing. 

This quote speaks loudly to my heart and soul, but feels especially appropriate mixed in with the art of the children I work with everyday.  I am honored and blessed to be here.  I am thankful for the hugs, the smiles, the handshakes, the cups of coffee, the frybread, the friendship and the exchange of stories.  These relationships are changing and shaping my understanding of faith and Christian community.  Thanks be to God!

Blue!

I think I’ve said before on this blog that I really appreciate the pastors’ conference that we’re a part of.  It’s a fantastic group of people who really support the ministry of one another.  We had our monthly meeting at the Lutheran Social Services office in Rapid City recently.  We began our meeting with a devotional.  This particular devotional required us to pick a piece of colored paper out of an icecream bucket.  Each color represented a category of things and we were to pray a prayer of thanks for what was listed on our piece of paper. 

I reached in and quickly pulled out a small piece of blue paper.  I learned that blue was the color relationships and my paper said “Children.”  It seemed perfect to be thanking God for so much, especially since my assignment was children.  Our group prayer was to be solely “thanking” and not “asking.”  Try praying to God without asking for anything—it’s hard! 

I continue to pray a prayer of thanksgiving for the children we encounter every day.  I pray that they have Sanctuary, more than just an hour a day when they come to us.  

Thanksgiving

Sorry for the delay in posting!  Things have been rather busy here over the last few weeks.  Yesterday was the first day that I spent most of the day at the center, without having to run anywhere else, for at least three weeks.  It was strange to sit at my computer and actually get some measurable work done, since the last few weeks have been more about conversations, wakes and funerals, worship services and less "measurable" work.

I was trying to listen to myself as Thanksgiving was coming up a few weeks ago.  I was curious if I was sad that I wasn’t with my family or confused over how to celebrate Thanksgiving in a community of people who are typically depicted at Thanksgiving as wearing buckskin loin cloths and wearing feather headdresses.  I had prepared myself to curl up on the couch with the boxed DVD set of The Vicar of Dibley, which is a British TV show about a female priest in England.  My friend Kelly, a pastor in Chicago, sent me this boxed set after we had an exchange about some of the difficult days of being an intern.  My supervisor said that we’d close the center on Thanksgiving and the day after. 

I was ready for a break.  Vicar of Dibley.  My couch.  My puppy.  My favorite Thanksgiving leftovers: mashed potatoes, sweet potato casserole, green bean casserole and brussel sprouts.  The entire month of November has flown by, since it’s been so busy around here.  The idea of having nothing else to do sounded magnificent.

Life in ministry is not just about the plans we make in advance, documenting the dates and times of events into my trusty planner.  Life in ministry often means spontaneous, last minute needs that pop up.  Keep this in mind.

Let’s start with the day before Thanksgiving.  I got up to go the dentist at 7am, then shopped for the necessary fixin’s for our two Thanksgiving meals.  Got back from the store and spent the rest of Wednesday cooking a big meal for the kids.  We ended up serving approximately 40 kids a full meal: turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, sweet potato casserole, green bean casserole, gravy, cranberry sauce, rolls and pumpkin pie.  After feeding them and cleaning up the dinner, we left fifteen minutes later to go to a wake.  This particular death was due to suicide and the deceased was 27 years old. 

My first funerals and wakes here were for young children, which carries its own weight and difficulties.  There’s something different about looking into a casket and seeing someone your own age, who chose to take their life.  This death took a lot out of me, since one of my seminary classmates committed suicide this fall, as I was driving across the country to begin internship. 

There are no good answers for suicide, especially young suicide.  You can’t say, “He lived a good life…” when really, I’m very aware of how many hopes, dreams, plans, ideas and adventures are ahead of me, and this man, at my age, is lying in a casket.  It’s difficult.

After several hours at the wake, I went back to the Center and sat down to write my Thanksgiving sermon.  I was trained by my preaching professor, Craig Satterlee, to prepare for your sermon well in advance of preaching it.  I usually have my sermon written by Thursday evening, Friday morning at the latest, allowing me plenty of time to read over it and internalize the words.  Due to the chaos of the last week, sermon writing really couldn’t happen until the day before. 

I got up at 7am on Thanksgiving to start cooking for the meal after the service, and to finish writing my sermon.  I finished just in time to load up the car with all the food and drive out to St. John’s for our Thanksgiving worship service.  As I was setting up the table, I realized that I had left my sermon back at the center. 

Welp.  I did say that I wanted to try preaching without notes a few times on internship.  I didn’t expect to have to do it unplanned.  I think the sermon went well though, probably because I had written it an hour before.  We worshipped. We ate.  We went home.  An hour later, I was back out to the second night of the wake.

Most of Friday was spent at the funeral.  My supervisor and I left “early” after about four and half hours.  The total service, viewing, burial, feed and giveaway probably lasted over six hours. 

So, when people ask about my Thanksgiving, I realize that my plans of curling up with a British sitcom were replaced by being with a room of people grieving the scary, untimely death of a young person.  And I think I was exactly where I needed to be.  And for this, I am most thankful.

Broken. Horn.

Since my last few posts were rather depressing, I figured I'd throw in a funny one, just for kicks.

Many of you know that I drive a little 2000 Chevrolet Cavalier.  It's not much, but it gets me where I need to be.  I've owned it for a little over a year and it's slowly losing some of its, well, special skills.

If you read my first entry, you know that I don't have air conditioning in it.  It's also pre-automatic windows, pre-power locks and there's no cruise control.  Cross-country driving without cruise control is rough, folks.

The newest quirk, shall we say, or shortcoming for the pessimists, is that my horn doesn't work.  While living in Chicago, not having a horn just makes you out to be a suburban driver or a rural driver, rather than a tough city driver.  I couldn't honk at people to get out of the way or to let them know I was there, so I had to play the Beta-car and drop back, always playing nice.

In the middle of South Dakota, or Nebraska, since I'm often in Nebraska, not having a horn isn't an issue for interacting with other cars.  In fact, I often drive for miles and miles without seeing another car on the road, if I'm outside of town.  The lack of horn is proving to be a difficulty for deer.

Deer???  Yes.  Deer.

As I'm driving along in the middle of the country, I constantly scan across the road for deer.  At night, I'm particularly vigilant for the flash off an eye or antler, praying for those extra three seconds to stop, should a four-legged friend decide to cross the road.

Now, in the most normal of situations, and with full privileges of car accessories, I would just honk at said deer, as I was approaching them, to encourage them to get off the road.  Without having a horn, I resort to a different method.

I slow down.  I stop.  I turn down my radio.  I roll down my non-automatic window.  I stick my head out the window.

I yell, "Move!"

And, if the deer catch on, they scoot across the road and I continue on my way.  You think I'm kidding?

This has happened twice.

The Angry Girl

Yesterday, I performed for the first time with the Chadron Community Chorus.  I joined this chorus late, but it's been a huge blessing to have a community event outside of Pine Ridge.  Since I live in the Center, it's been a guaranteed time every week where I'm out of the building.  Anyway, yesterday was our fall concert.  We sang a variety of pieces, including Someone to Watch Over Me, which was a piece I sang during my voice jury in college.  It was fun to sing it with an ensemble this time though!

One of the pieces we sang is called "Give Me Your Tired, Your Poor" by Irving Berlin.  Here's a random choir singing it--THIS IS NOT OUR CHOIR!  I'm posting it just so you can hear it.

The lyrics are:
Give me your tired, your poor
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore
Send these the homeless tempest-tost to me
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!
During the last few rehearsals, one of the members of the choir has been particularly passionate about this song.  She said that it makes her so proud to be an American and that we should wave little American flags while we sing it.

Now, I am the first one to admit that I still haven't quite figured out how to adequately articulate my views about being an American and the patriotism/national pride that goes with it.  I feel incredibly fortunate to have been born in the United States, into a country where I have a vote and many freedoms; I feel unfortunate to be a part of a nation of people who often think they are the most important people and the only people in the entire world.  But, without going into too much of a rant, I'll stick to the song.

During our last rehearsal on Thursday, as we sang the words to this song, I started to tear up and actually had to stop singing to take a calming breath.  I wasn't moved by the beauty of this "great nation" or Lady Liberty.  I was moved by how much the words sung about the people who I encounter every day.  When I sang, "give me your tired, your poor," I pictured the number of people who come to the door asking for a blanket for each member of their family, since it's now 15 degrees in South Dakota and they're out of propane.  When I sang "huddled masses," I pictured the men who sleep under the walkway in front of my building and in the outside stairwell to our basement.  The "homeless tempest-tost" are those fifty families who lost their homes this summer to the windstorms.  And by the time I got to lifting my lamp to the golden door, I was asking myself, "What lamp?" and "Where's this magical door?"

I've had many a conversation with my family members as we reflect on the laws/rules/beliefs about immigration to the United States today.  We often reflect back on how our Irish and Czech ancestors were treated when they came through Ellis Island in the early 1900s.  I'm sure my great grandmothers, Honora O'Sharkey and Styska DeJong approached Ellis Island with the anticipation of a new life, a life where the lamp casts bright light onto a dark, depressing path.  This is the story for many of us who come from European immigrants.  I'm ready to get my American flag out to wave when I think of the sense of freedom that my ancestors had when they approached the United States.

I am quick to put that flag away though when I realize what the opportunity for freedom for my ancestors has meant for the people who lived on this continent well before Honora got off the boat or before Lady Liberty was built.  I think about the people who were here before anybody was "exploring trade routes" and before anyone decided that it was their job to "Kill the Indian and keep the man."

Story within a story time: I met a young Episcopalian priest lately who told me that she did a summer internship on a reservation nearby right before she started seminary.  One of her classmates called her "The Angry Girl" for the first year and a half of seminary due to the way she processed her time on the reservation.  I too am often known as "The Angry Girl," whether to my face or behind my back.  It's about passion though, passion for people, for the story that goes with those people and for the time and place in which I meet those people and meet their stories.  I'm quickly approaching "The Angry Girl" status when it comes to Native American advocacy.

Back to the original story.

Singing the words on this music meant something so powerful for many members of the chorus and I absolutely do NOT dismiss this.  I was struck by how it was so powerful and moving for them in one way and powerful and moving for me in a completely different way.  My "people" came to this land for freedom, yet even if Honora and Styska weren't at the Massacre at Wounded Knee, they share a history of Euro-American immigrants who aided in the forced resettling of Native peoples and their continued oppression.

This Angry Girl will happily wave her little American flag when she feels as if people, ALL PEOPLE, who live in this land mass, known as the United States of America, are granted the freedoms that we promise when we declare that we are a land of the free.

An honor and a heartbreak.

I found out that I was headed to Pine Ridge for internship in January this year, so I spent January to August trying to prepare myself for what this year would hold for me.  I researched as much as I could about this community.  I was aware of the poverty, alcoholism, spectrum of traditional to Christian and language differences.  There was an awful lot that I didn't know or I didn't know how to prepare for adequately.  I asked myself a lot of questions and everyone who knew me asked me lots of questions about where I would live and what it would look like.  In fact, in a moment of weakness/anxiety/panic/what-the-heck-am-I-doing??!!, I actually used Google Maps to zoom in on the town of Pine Ridge and look at pictures of the streets that I would become familiar with in this year here.  It may have been a little creepy, but it made me feel better.

Despite all my preparing, I certainly wasn't prepared for the bomb that Karen dropped on me on my first night here.  When Karen was getting ready to leave for the night, she said, "I would stay close to the building when you walk Steve until you get a sense of the community.  There are 38 gangs here and I don't want you to get caught in the crossfire."

38 gangs...in Pine Ridge.

Needless to say, this bit of knowledge shook me for the first week or so that I was here.  I did stay close.  I continue to stay close at night.  I've adjusted though and don't feel quite so queasy about it.  Despite living in the southside of Chicago for the last two years, hearing that there are 38 gangs in an area so small seems a lot more terrifying.

The most terrifying part of gangs here though is that our kids are involved.

Last night, one of the boys, who's eight years old, I think, said, "Meredith!  Guess what?  I'm wearing all blue, head to foot.  Even my socks are blue!"  Since I had been warned to be aware of groups of people wearing all the same color, to be sure that I don't get caught in the middle of something, I had a sickening feeling about his decree.  I was curious what he would say, when asked why, since he was bold enough to brag that he was wearing all blue.  He sort of mumbled over his words and looked down at his hands.  His whole demeanor changed from pride to shame.

Later in the evening, I heard him say to one of the other boys something about the Crips.  The Crips are known for wearing blue and having a rivalry with the Bloods, whose color is red.  Since I don't really think there are tons of academic, official articles out on the Internet explaining the gangs, here's one I found that seems reasonable.

A tangential story, which if you've been reading this blog for awhile, you know how I love to tell lots of different stories.  When I was younger, I remember learning to spell "Blood" with my fingers, which is the gang sign for the Bloods.  As a little girl in the middle of nowhere Pennsylvania, I was amused that I could spell something with my hands.  I had absolutely no concept of what it meant to throw up a gang sign like "blood" with my fingers.  I think back to how many other kids or people that I showed off what I had learned and I cringe at the thought.

Back to this little boy though...

We take the Center van around to drop the kids off after Sanctuary time, the time where we provide a safe and holy place for all people.  As this little guy got out of the van, I said, "Please make good choices tonight. I love you and I care about you."  And my heart broke.

If the kids ride their bikes to Sanctuary, we bring the bikes inside so that
they don't get stolen.  I wish we could do that with kids who are being
tempted and encouraged to join a violent organization.

We begin every worship by announcing that we're in the Sanctuary space.  "What's a Sanctuary?"  I yell out. The kids yell back, "A safe and holy place!"  To now know that the Sanctuary time, the one or two hours a day, is a time when this boy, and surely others, are out of homes where they are being taught to join some of the most infamous gangs in the world, is both an honor and heartbreak.

Election 2012, part numpa

I thought posting about the election last night was good, since I was posting immediately following my thoughts.  Normally, I make a list in my notebook about my ideas for blog posts and then get to them several days after the event has occurred.  So, since I posted rather quickly about the election, it requires some follow-up thoughts.

South Dakota is normally a red state.  The counties that are contained within the Reservation were blue counties during this election.  The analysts (....I guess...?) project that if all the young people on the Reservation exercise their right to vote in the United States election in 2016, South Dakota could become a blue state.  Pretty cool, huh?

And, to be fair, if you're supportive of a red state, I'm saying that it's pretty cool for a state to be determined by a bunch of young voters, regardless of views.  

I get a daily email from StoryPeople, which to my knowledge, is a group of artists/collaborators that come up with these drawings and words to make you think.  I'm pretty sure that the main artist is a Luther College alum, but I could be wrong.  I don't get excited about every day's picture, but today's was meaningful, especially considering the impact that young people have on the future of the United States, the world and in our own relationships.

2012 Election

I am sick and tired of the way that people have been bashing each other during this election season.

After some thinking on this, I realized that this is the first election since Facebook really became essential to our culture.  I remember joining Facebook in 2005, not really sure what it was and certainly not knowing that it would become so significant to the way that people spoke to each other.  More importantly, I never thought I'd watch hundreds of "friends" bash each other on Facebook for months over this night, the night where the United States finds out who will be the president for the next four years.  I'll be honest and say that I've actually removed easily ten "friends" from my Facebook Newsfeed.  I support your freedom of expression, but I have the freedom to walk away from you when you're expressing yourself in an offensive way.

Let me step down from my Facebook rant.

This election process has been really interesting around Pine Ridge, since the tribal elections have been happening at the same time.  Instead of expensive commercials bashing the opponents, I've seen cardboard or plywood signs advertising the different candidates alongside the road.  Tribal members voted today for the representatives of each district, as well as the Tribal President, Vice-President and other representatives.  These elections happened at the same time and place as the United States Government elections.

I was fortunate enough to have lunch with a new friend today, since she was on her way back from voting.  She is a non-Native teacher at a school on the Reservation.  I've experienced primarily Obama supporters in my travels, aside from one man, who said that God spoke to him and told him to vote for Romney.  To this, a woman in the room said that God spoke to her and told her to vote for Obama.  Interesting, huh?!  I asked this teacher if the young people in her high school classes have much to say about the US Presidential election.  She exclaimed, "Oh yes!"  She went on to say that the students asked her, "What will happen to us if Romney's elected?"

Reading hurtful comments from middle and upper-class Facebook friends, bashing one another about politics, seems even more obnoxious when you hear that teenagers are actually terrified of what will happen to their lives, their families, their tribe and their land, should Romney be elected.  Terrified.

This broke my heart.

I have no intention of making this a "political" blog post, since I refuse to have one more place where people say hateful things to each other, on both ends of the political spectrum.  I do say this though as information, information about what a group of Indian teenagers thinks about their future.

In watching some of the post-election coverage, one announcer said that it was impressive that Obama was re-elected with the United States unemployment rate at 8%.  This caught my attention, since I currently live in the third-poorest county in the United States: Shannon County.  While the United States has an 8% unemployment rate right now, Shannon County, which is entirely on the Reservation, has an 80% unemployment rate.  The teenagers aren't terrified because of Mitt's haircut or Obama's birth certificate, but they're terrified because their very lives depend on who leads the United States government in determining the fate of the indigenous people of this land.

I'm not sure what else to say here...again, so I figure I'll share an image that made me smile tonight.  The kids that I see every day have some of the best smiles in the entire world.  And they give the best hugs.  And they make me laugh...constantly.  One child came in with the word "poop" written on her face the other day.  She's four.  She has a big brother.  You do the math.

Isn't he the cutest???

I let the kids use my camera tonight, so take this as a sign of my political
beliefs.  Peace, between all people.  On Facebook and off.
Let's work on it, folks.

Sermon: John 11.32-44

I don't typically post sermons on blogs, in part because I believe that a sermon is a delivered event, rather than an article.  I also don't post them because I'm highly critical of the sermons that I preach, questioning and doubting it even after I preach.  I'm posting this one since it can give you some insight into the community here.

John 11:32-44

Preached November 4, 2012

One of my seminary classmates, Zak, can’t sleep with the lights on.  His wife Katie says that he sleeps every night with a blanket over his head so that the light doesn’t get into his eyes.  I didn’t think much of this until a bunch of us went camping.  Katie pointed into their tent one morning to show the pile of blankets that Zak puts around his head every single night.  We all have our own little sleeping quirks—I’m sure!  I like some quiet noise in the background, like a fan, but Zak has an elaborate process for wrapping his special blanket around his head, every night, so that he doesn’t have any light coming in and so that he doesn’t get too hot. 

This strange ritual of blocking the light out of his eyes keeps Zak at an appropriate distance from the brightness; it keeps him safe, shall we say.  I imagine that if Katie reached over and yanked the blanket off of his face, exposing his eyes to the lights in their bedroom, he would be upset.  I know that I would certainly be upset if someone disturbed my sleep.

“Lazarus, come out!”

While Lazarus didn’t choose to cover his ears or his eyes in the same way that Zak does, he was wrapped in the burial cloth, bound up and tucked away in a tomb.  Lazarus had been dead for four days already and had begun to actually stink.  The body begins to break down immediately after death and they say that the three day mark is safe to prevent the stench.  Being dead for four days meant that Lazarus was most certainly dead and most certainly decomposing in that tomb. 

Jesus comes to the tomb, the dark, musty cavern, and calls Lazarus out into the bright, Middle-Eastern sunlight, and forces him to re-enter the world. 

Our text doesn’t say that Lazarus resisted Jesus calling him to come out.  Our text does say that Lazarus had been ill and that his sisters called for Jesus several days prior to him actually dying.  Jesus didn’t come to Lazarus immediately, but after he had died. 

You all are no strangers to death.  In the brief two and a half months that I have been here, I have experienced the epidemic of death.  Wakes and funerals seem to come daily.  It almost feels strange to go through a week without hearing about multiple wakes and funerals, just at Billie Mills Hall.  It feels normal to have death hovering above the building, surrounding us with its stench of pain and grief.  It feels normal to breathe in the musty air, bracing ourselves for the next name to appear in the obituaries, praying that it’s not someone we hold dearly. 

It’s not just the death of our bodies though, ending up in caskets, laid out in the halls for our families and loved ones to walk through and pay their respects.  We are experiencing an epidemic of spiritual death, the death of hope for the future, for change, for a chance at life other than this one.  We’ve given up, in many ways, feeling completely consumed by this dark cloud of rotting flesh and rotting spirit, feeling as if nothing and nobody can call us out of this loneliness and pain.  A man recently told me that the doctor told him that if he drank one more time, he would die.  So he did.  One more drink and he prayed for his death, because life is too miserable here he said

The loneliness and sadness seems to fester in our very nostrils, the moment we step out of our front doors, looking around and seeing no light, no hope, no chance.

Lazarus was so dead that he was beginning to rot.  Instead, Jesus came to the entrance of the tomb and called to him saying, “Lazarus, come out!”  Lazarus, come out.  Come out into the light, come out into the earth which God our creator has designed for you, child.  Come out. 

Christ meets us in the stench of death in the tomb and pulls us out into the light, into the new beginning of life.  Christ is the hope, the comfort, the reassurance that there is a life better than this.  We are promised an eternal life in Christ’s own death and resurrection, which happened immediately following the healing of Lazarus.  Christ looks to the Heavens and weeps before he calls Lazarus to come out, then prays aloud for all to hear.  God is always with us, deep in the tomb, deep in the stench of desperation and pain. 

It is safe to remain in this tomb, to remain bound up by the fear and frustration.  Because it’s what we know.  It’s where we’ve settled in.  Nowhere in the Bible or in Christ’s teachings does it say that being a Christian is about being “safe.”  Jesus calls Lazarus to come out of the tomb, dragging him into the light of new life, and tells him to begin life again.  It’s uncomfortable and we don’t like it.  Christ speaks his prayer to God aloud for all of us, for us, the ones stuck in the spiritual and physical tombs, asking where God is in this epidemic of death and destruction.  It’s for us, the ones asking if God has in fact forgotten about us.

By calling us out of our tombs, out of the darkest place reeking with the aroma of struggle, Christ greets us with the light of a new day, calling us forth to be the children of God.  Christ, in this, replaces us in the tomb with his own body, providing for us a life far greater than the one of death. 

And when we come out of that tomb, we rely on our sisters and brothers to unbind us.  We cannot and do not save ourselves.  Christ beckons us out of the cave, then commands our sisters and brothers to unbind us, to remove the sting of loneliness.  To remove the painful label of “Whiteclay Wine-o.”  To hold our hands when we having nothing left to hold onto. 

You see, Lazarus was wrapped in the shroud, the burial cloth, by his sisters and brothers, the ones who laid him in the tomb.  Christ called Lazarus out of the tomb, at which Lazarus came out, with his hands and feet still bound up in strips of cloth, and his face covered in cloth.  Christ made him alive, then tells us to remove the fabric that is preventing Lazarus from walking, running, jumping, living, hoping, trying, believing. 

Our power as Christians, the children of God called to live in community with all of God’s precious creation, is to do the unbinding.  It is not our job to raise people from the dead.  We simply can’t.  Christ has done this for all of us in giving his life as a sacrifice for ours.  He makes all things new.  Death will be no more; mourning and crying and pain will be no more, for the first things have passed away.  There is no longer weeping and mourning in the tomb, because Christ has called us out, meeting us in the deepest, darkest, rotting flesh of life, and has brought us into a community of believers to unbind us from our labels and ailments. 

Perhaps these ailments and labels are ones that we have put on ourselves, much like Zak choosing to cover his eyes with blankets.  Perhaps they have been thrust upon us out of habit, just as the family and friends of Lazarus wrapped his body in cloth for death.  But all bindings, chosen and unchosen, are to be taken away, since we know that Christ has brought us into new life outside of the crypt.

There is no stench too strong for Christ, no pain too great, no heart too sad, no body too weak for Christ to resurrect and call out of the tomb of death.  And for this, we rejoice.

Thanks be to God.

Ministry: The New Frontier

I will often claim Star Wars in the age-old Star Wars v. Star Trek debate.  Growing up, we'd watch the original trilogy on a constant rotation.  I still have a pretty solid base of knowledge about Tatooine, light sabers and who shot first.  Despite this claim to my nerd roots, I have to quote Star Trek for this post.

Ministry: The New Frontier

Last week, we had a group of third-year medical students from Sanford School of Medicine at the University of South Dakota.  A solid group of people my age, getting a higher degree, who came to Pine Ridge for their cross-cultural experience.  As a part of their stay here, in addition to the normal programming we do, we took them on a tour of the hospital.  This was the first time that I had gotten a chance to go to the hospital, so it was pretty awesome to experience.  Our tour guide asked one of the physicians on duty to come talk to the group about practicing medicine at Pine Ridge.  He seemed quite eager to share his knowledge of medicine, patient interactions, etc, with the group, capitalizing on the time with his captive audience.  Much in the same way that I relished the time with colleagues, really.

One of the things that he said in his conversation with the group was in relation to the tiers of medicine.  Apparently, in the medical field, you have tiers of care: Primary, Secondary, Tertiary and Quaternary.  Now, I can Google these terms just as easily as you can, so I really won't do field justice by pretending to explain them.  Basically, Primary is the first step--you don't say.  Then, it moves down the line for more specific needs.  The doctor explained that working at the Pine Ridge wasn't just rural medicine, but that it was frontier medicine.  A step beyond rural medicine.  A place where all these levels are great, but the reality is that the hospital spends the majority of its budget flying patients out to other hospitals, since there aren't specialists there.  On Friday, when we visited, he said that he was the only physician there.  There was also one surgeon.  Everyone else was a para-professional or a mid-level professional (i.e. Physicians' Assistants). The way that he practices medicine is really through asking this question: Is this immediately life-threatening?  If it is, then the patient will receive further care.  If it's not, often the patient has to deal with it.

As he was talking, I decided that what we do in ministry at Pine Ridge is Frontier Ministry.

Let me explain.

Yesterday, I was scheduled to preach and lead services at St. John's Episcopal, where my supervisor and I alternate services for their bi-weekly worship schedule.  I was also scheduled to lead services at Cohen Home, the assisted living facility where we also alternate leading services on a bi-weekly basis.  In addition to this, the minister at the Presbyterian congregation next door asked me to preach on Sunday.  It seemed to be a great solution for me to get the communion elements consecrated before going out to St. John's.

To boil it down in the simplest way possible, I get to do everything that a pastor does now in a worship service, according to the ELCA, aside from "consecrating the elements" (In the night in which he was betrayed...)  Meaning, since my supervisor wasn't going to be at St. John's, if we wanted to still have communion, we needed to get someone else to bless them.  The plan was for me to take them to the Presbyterian congregation and then we'd be good to go!  During the Presbyterian service, after I had preached, the minister looked at me and said, "And now Meredith will do communion."

I would have paid $100 to see my facial expression.  Deer...in the headlights.  Definitely!

He read my face and offered to do it himself.  Thanks be to God!

We talked about it after the service and he explained that in the Dakota Presbytery, they allow any elder to do communion, since there's such a shortage of pastors.  I explained that the ELCA uses "Synodically Authorized Ministers" who have been appointed by the bishops to do communion what someone who is ordained isn't present.  This is to involve some planning...not on a whim.  This whole process is also because in the ELCA, I will be called to a ministry of Word and Sacrament.  It's not saying that I'm special or that I'm the only one capable of preaching and baptizing, but it's because the ELCA values intentional study and knowledge regarding the history and traditions of our faith.  It's my job, then, as a called and ordained minister of the ELCA, to use my study and knowledge to hold the congregation/community to the teachings of the Church.

Make sense?  Clear as mud?

Anyway, I was thankful not to be the one in charge of communion, especially since I'm really not sure what hymnal he used to say the words.  Hah.  I think it also says something about this community, that he didn't bat an eye at the idea of having the intern do it.

My mom is probably rolling her eyes at this point since my writing on this one is more like a figure eight, rather than a coherent string of thoughts.

Ministry: The New Frontier (coming back to the center of the figure eight)

I'm finding that to do ministry here requires some creativity and a whole lot of patience...and a bit of planning.  St. John's Episcopal Church doesn't have indoor heating.  In fact, most of the churches and big buildings that I've been in don't seem to have indoor heating.  I've learned to double-up my socks and wear long-johns on the cool days (Sidenote: We just started November and I've already worn long-johns a couple of times.  It's going to be a long winter).  St. John's does have a wood stove though, so as I was preaching and leading worship, my spot was next to the wood stove.  My Gemini self was matched in temperature.  The right side of my body was so hot that I was dripping sweat and the left side of my body was so cold that it was numb.

Planning is also necessary at St. John's and many other "rural" churches, since they don't have indoor plumbing.  Plan appropriately or you will be using the outhouse.

The frontier?  I think so.

**To be clear, I don't define the frontier as being on the Reservation, nor do I define it simply because I'm working with the indigenous community.  I define the frontier as working with what you have and being creative, outside of what you would consider "normal."  I feel it's appropriate to put this disclaimer, due to the history of the United States and the indigenous communities here.

Another bit of life is that I've been getting multiple bug bites/stings/wounds/who knows what, every night, since September 18th.  I typically have 20 or so on my body at any given time.  I have Googled "Bug bites" far too many times for my own comfort.  This picture shows one of the biggest ones, with the several on my elbow and some more for decoration.  I've tried taking Benadryl.  I've tried Hydro-cortisone cream.  I may start using bug spray daily.  Those med students doing frontier medicine better figure out what these are!!!

Iyeska

This depiction of a tipi with a cross in the center
hangs above the front door of the PRRC

Iyeska.  Lakota word of the week.  Actually, iyeska is the Lakota word for the year.  This year.  My year here.

So...what does it mean, Mer???

Iyeska, pronounced "ee-yay-sh-kah" means "half-breed" or "mixed-blood."

Before I moved to Pine Ridge, I knew that blood quantum was a serious matter to discuss for the indigenous communities.  Blood quantum refers to the percentage of "Indian" that a person is, and what rights they have because of that amount.  In 1934, the U.S. Government established the Indian Reorganization Act, which established what financial benefits were available to Native Americans, using the blood quantum to determine who was enough of an Indian.  Not only is this hurtful to many Native Americans for being questioned on their heritage, but debating blood quantum is frustrating when lots American can trace their lineage to find that they are "1/16th" Indian.  A conversation must happen, therefore, to figure out what the significance of "blood" is to a culture of people.  To the best that I can find, using my brief Internet searching, it seems as if the Sioux require 1/4 blood quantum to be a member of the tribe.

Only 1/4 blood to be considered a member of the tribe?  I'm a 1/4 Irish; my great grandmother was named Honora O'Sharkey.  Since that's the largest quantity of blood in my body that I know about, often claim it as my heritage.  I wear a Claddagh ring every day that my mom bought me when my family went to Ireland a few years back.  Not only is it significant as a gift from my mom, but I feel a closer connection to my ancestors every day.  We picked out the ring in Westport, County Mayo, where my relatives are from.  But really, 1/4 Irish isn't the same as 100% Irish, nor is it the same as someone who is 1/4 Irish, but raised in Ireland.

What does it mean to be 1/4 Sioux, but raised outside of a Sioux community?  What does it mean to be 1/4 Sioux, raised inside a Sioux community?

As I am constantly reflecting on who I am and where I have come from, I sometimes exhaust myself in this exploration of self in regards to the community that I am.  And sometimes, this isn't just an internal thought, but it's a visible community event.

Stick with me.  I know that this is turning into a rambling post where I'm ping-ponging all over the place.

Last week, I attended a "give-away" with my supervisor and some of our friends in the community.  A give-away is just that.  This particular give-away was from a group in Michigan called the Gathering Thunder Foundation.  According to their website, their Mission Statement is this:

"Gathering Thunder Foundation is dedicated to the preservation of Native American culture, customs, spirituality and language.  In addition to this endeavor, we strive to help provide funds for food, propane, electricity, wood supplies, education, clothing and hope for our Native American brothers and sisters all across Turtle Island (North America), who are in need. "

A group from Gathering Thunder Foundation arrived on the Reservation with a large Budget rental truck full of furniture, food, pet food, clothing, bedding, etc, etc, etc.  They had alerted the community of Oglala that they would be coming to do the give-away, especially in response to the number of homes that were destroyed here due to severe windstorms this summer.  50 families, I believe, were displaced from the storms.  The give-away was for the entire community though.

I arrived with my white supervisor and one of our Indian friends, then sat at a table with five or six other Native friends.  When the volunteers from the Foundation started coming in, I immediately felt nauseous.  Here I was, the white girl, sitting at a table with my friends, who are Native, but watching white people come in to drop off a truck full of stuff for people to take.

My whiteness felt blinding.  Similar to being in one of those offices with the really harsh overhead lighting.

The woman that was sitting next to me asked if I could pick her out some things from the give-away pile, since she has Cerebral Palsy and uses crutches to walk.  I struggled and struggled, feeling more and more uncomfortable in my skin as the items were brought into the large gymnasium that we were sitting inside of.  I felt the anticipation of Black Friday shopping mixed with the instinctual need to grab the "stuff" that people needed most.  I felt it in the room and I wanted to run screaming from the building.  My friend asked me several times more if I would go and get stuff for her and I suggested that I walk with her, since I didn't want to fight people for the things.

I have never been Black Friday shopping and I will never, ever go.  I don't like the idea of the fight.  Don't get me wrong, I love a good hockey fight or even elbowing the crowds for a better spot at a concert, but something about shopping crowds makes me really uncomfortable.

My friend kept pushing me, telling me that she couldn't walk around the crowd, but that I needed to do it for her.  I kept trying the "walk with you" route, thinking that I was doing the nice ELCA Accompaniment Model, right?  I mean, if I walked with her, then I wouldn't be taking from someone else and I would be assisting her, while allowing her to direct what she wanted and needed.  Except that in my nice accompaniment answer, I was articulating to her what I was actually upset about.  After several more attempts, she finally said, "It's fine, Meredith.  You don't have to go in there.  I know you're not used to Rez life like this."  I think she was disappointed, but I think she also was serious in saying that it wasn't normal for me.  I explained to her, the best that I could, while holding back the tears that were close to the surface, that it wasn't about the crowd, or the stuff, or walking.  It was about the fact that I was white and my whiteness made me so much more like the people showing up to drop stuff off in a big truck, only to drive right back out of the Reservation in a few hours.  Now, to be fair, I've researched the Gathering Thunder Foundation and it seems that they're intentional with working with the communities and asking the communities what they need.

At the same time, I looked more like them and less like the people I was sitting with at the table, the people who have become my friends over the last two months.  The people who I am here to be with and to learn about.  The people who are the recipients of the give-away.

I processed this whole day with my Internship Committee the following day, since I was still struggling with what it all meant.  My entire committee is Native, minus one woman who is white and is a teacher in a local school.  After listening to me ramble on about whiteness and being an outsider and discomfort, she said to me, "Well, I think I'm probably the best one to respond, since I've been through what you're experiencing."  She went on to explain that she sees herself as a half-breed.  When she's in the Indian community, she's white.  When she's in the white community, she's Native.  She really is a half-breed by blood, since her mother was Indian, but she was raised in a non-Native community.  She told me that I will, by the end of the year, become a half-breed, or an iyeska.

I would guess that half-breed or iyeska has more of a negative connotation than a positive one, in the same way that blood quantum debates tend to be negative.  Over the past week, though, I've been ruminating on this idea of being an iyeska.  Perhaps it's because I want a better nickname than wasicu "wah-see-chu" meaning "white person" or specifically, "the one who takes all the meat."  I get tired of hearing wasicu, partly because I'm a vegetarian and I think it's silly that I'm the one who takes all the meat.  I also get tired of hearing it because it's a constant reminder that I am an outsider, and an outsider whose skin color represents over a hundred years of oppression, violence, rape and destruction.

Now, now, don't get all guilty about being white, Mer.  I'm not saying that I did these things, but my face, my arms, my legs and my hair, look a heck of a lot more like the people who have destroyed and who now continue to show up with a truck full of stuff.

I pray that in all of this, I can sift out my place in this community, recognizing that I am white.  I am an outsider.  I am a wasicu.  I do blend in more with the outsiders who come in to drop off a truck full of stuff.  I also pray that I can live more into my iyeska identity, praying that even as an outsider, I am trusted and become an insider.  I need to trust myself that there is a reason why I am sitting at the table, drinking coffee with my aunties and not unloading the truck.  I am becoming an iyeska, a half-breed, living half in the Indian world and half in the white, Euro-American world, where my 1/4 Irish means a Claddagh ring and a nice story, but that my identity is made up of all the pieces of my life that have shaped me into the person capable of sitting next to my aunties and grandmas.

My preaching professor would probably say that I "landed the plane" with that last paragraph and that I shouldn't take off again.  But here's my final thought...I swear!

As I've been contemplating this iyeska-ness, it was fun to actually be an iyeska last night.  We had a sending meal for the group that's been staying with us.  We've had a few folks from Wisconsin churches and a large group of third-year medical students from Sanford School of Medicine at the University of South Dakota.  All of the medical students were my age and I fit in really well with them as far as looks, personality and conversation topics.  Tresita and Asa came to cook us a meal of Indian tacos though and I was Tresita's line cook, preparing the trays for the frybread and helping get everything set up.  Then, when she got tired, she asked me to continue making the frybread.  There I stood over a vat of oil, flipping the pieces of frybread to serve my peers, but holding a sacred "middle" spot, where Tresita trusted me to do the frybread.  It's these moments of being an iyeska that I love.  I belong.  I belong to them.  I belong here.  I belong because I know Asa and Tresita and have taken the time to build a trusting relationship that goes beyond one afternoon of dropping off food and clothing.

And for this, I am forever thankful.  

Russell Means

American Indian Movement (AIM) flag

You may have heard recently that Russell Means died.  I'll be completely honest and say that I didn't know who Russell Means was when I first heard that he had died.  In listening to people talk about him, they expressed a deep sadness over his death, noting that he was a strong advocate for all indigenous peoples.  We heard lots about about this advocate's death, because Means was a member of the Oglala Sioux, specifically born on the Pine Ridge Reservation.  He was a child of this community.

Means is probably most well-known for his involvement in the American Indian Movement (AIM).  AIM was formed in 1968 in Minneapolis, Minnesota, by urban Native Americans, according to Wikipedia.  For perhaps a more accurate reflection of AIM, read this quote from the AIM website:

"The movement was founded to turn the attention of Indian people toward a renewal of spirituality which would impart the strength of resolve needed to reverse the ruinous policies of the United States, Canada, and other colonialist governments of Central and South America. At the heart of AIM is deep spirituality and a belief in the connectedness of all Indian people.  During the past thirty years, The American Indian Movement has organized communities and created opportunities for people across the Americas and Canada. AIM is headquartered in Minneapolis with chapters in many other cities, rural areas and Indian Nations.  AIM has repeatedly brought successful suit against the federal government for the protection of the rights of Native Nations guaranteed in treaties, sovereignty, the United States Constitution, and laws. The philosophy of self-determination upon which the movement is built is deeply rooted in traditional spirituality, culture, language and history. AIM develops partnerships to address the common needs of the people. Its first mandate is to ensure the fulfillment of treaties made with the United States. This is the clear and unwavering vision of The American Indian Movement." (Source)  

What I've gathered from community members is that AIM has historically been the group of people who protest the various ways in which US, Canadian and other federal governments continue to seek control over  the indigenous peoples.  If you click here, and scroll down, you can find a brief timeline of AIM's actions.

The most well-known AIM interaction around Pine Ridge is the incident at Wounded Knee.  As I write that, I realize that I need to write a blog post about the Massacre at Wounded Knee at some point, since this still very much affects people today.  The Massacre at Wounded Knee happened in 1890 between the US Government and the Lakota people.  Some historians estimate that 300 people were killed, then eventually placed in a mass grave.  The US Army actually awarded twenty Medals of Honor for their soldiers' acts of bravery.  The Massacre at Wounded Knee is far larger and far more complex than this; I give this very brief mention just to connect to the AIM incident at Wounded Knee.

On February 27, 1973, the AIM seized the town of Wounded Knee and occupied it for 71 days "while the U.S. Marshals Service laid seige."  According to this source:

"What became known as the Wounded Knee Incident of 1973 erupted for many reasons but was mainly due to the opposition of the reservation’s president, Richard "Dick" Wilson. Opponents of Wilson accused him of:

• "Mishandling tribal funds"
• Abuse of his authority; AIM cites the U.S. Commission of Civil Rights alleging that Wilson’s election had been "permeated with fraud"
• Using "brute force" for political means such as his private army the GOON’s (Guardians of the Oglala Nation) that AIM labeled as Wilson’s "official terrorist 'goon squad'"

His opponents also unsuccessfully attempted to impeach him in 1973. In fact, over 150 civil rights complaints had been issued against the reservation government in the years prior to the incident. AIM claims they chose Wounded Knee because of its historical significance. They considered the site of the 1890 Wounded Knee massacre "a prime example of the treatment of Indians since the European invasion".

OSCRO (the Oglala Sioux Civil Rights Organization) was an organization on the Pine Ridge Reservation that attempted to change the poor civil conditions. A meeting was held on February 26, 1973 "to openly discuss their grievances concerning the tribal government". Another meeting was held the next day, February 27 and AIM was summoned "for some assistance," by OSCRO to produce "results".

Dennis Banks states that it was "the Oglala Sioux Civil Rights Organization which called upon [AIM], and we responded". Between 200 and 300 AIM members entered the town on February 26. An official, reliable count of AIM members entering or occupying the town was never recorded and would have been difficult to achieve, but AIM claims that approximately 300 members of their organization entered the village while the government estimates 200."

Whew.  Are you catching all of this?  This has all been a lot for my head to wrap around.  My instinct is to write, "Basically..." but I don't want to do that and can't do that with this.  The AIM is a group of people who believe that they are fighting for the rights of their people.  Their presence at the '73 Wounded Knee Incident was by invitation from the community.  After 71 days, the U.S. Government took over the town of Wounded Knee with a few fatalities of Wounded Knee occupiers.

"To an uninvolved observer, this might have seemed like a defeat of the AIM and Oglala efforts. However, what it accomplished was a focused attention throughout the nation on the crippling problems Native Americans faced, not just on Pine Ridge, but across the country." (Source)

Now, Wilson's GOONs, the Guardians of the Oglala Nation, play into this whole story as well, since they were the private police force that Wilson created in the '70s.  The GOONs are known for the violence they used against AIM and other tribal members.  The GOONs and AIM continued to fight after the Incident at Wounded Knee, killing over 60 people violently in the three years that followed the incident (Source).

Okay, okay, Meredith.  You're frying our brains.

Yep.  I get it.  It's a lot to take in and process.  Perhaps this is old news for those of you reading who were alive in the 1970s, but as a child of the 80s, I'm not familiar with this story at all.

The most interesting part about learning all of this in the Pine Ridge community is hearing the way different people talk about different groups.  I've heard lots of people say, in a hushed tone as someone leaves the room, "She's one of those AIMers."  Or, "He was one of the GOONs."  People are still divided, based on the political or perhaps, activist, labels that each person has chosen.  Since I've had very limited knowledge of these groups and since I was still pre-fetal at the time of this conflict, I don't really know how to respond when people quietly identify others.

I hope that as time goes on, I can hear more of the stories about what it meant/means to be in AIM and what it was like to be a GOON, knowing that both are ways in which the Lakota people chose/choose to live out their values.

**Please don't harshly critique my use of Wikipedia articles.  I was going for fast information, not academic information.

"Mis"carriage.

I have another confession to make.

I haven't been entirely truthful in this blog.  I've posted fairly "clean" or unemotional posts regarding life here.  I've done this out of respect for this community--not wanting to post only negative--and out of respect for my readers, since I really don't know who all of you are.  Because I have avoided some of the really difficult parts of my time here, I don't think I'm doing all of you, this community and you readers, justice.

A few of my classmates and friends know that this has been a rough two months.  It has been a fantastic two months and I really believe that I'm exactly where I need to be.  It has also been incredibly difficult.

Today marks exactly two months since I arrive in Pine Ridge.  In that time, I've participated in almost a dozen death-related events (i.e. wakes, funerals, memorials, etc.)  The first wake and funeral that I attended was for a 10 month old baby girl who drowned in the bathtub.  The second wake and funeral that I attended was for a three year-old boy who was killed when his mother drove home drunk with him in the car.  These two occurred in the same week; these two children were cousins.

Death has slowed down a bit since that first intense time, but I'm still surrounded by it.  Today is Wednesday, and in the last two days, since Monday is my day off, I've taken at least four phone calls from family members looking for help with their deceased loved one's wake and funeral.  People have actually begun to describe death here on the Rez as an epidemic.  People are dying too often and at far too young of an age.  The average life expectancy for men is early 50s.

The most recent "death" experience was being invited to do a service at the home of a woman who had a miscarriage.  The miscarriage happened early enough into the pregnancy that she didn't even know the sex of the baby; however, we still held a service, much like a funeral, to honor the child and grieve with the family.

I wasn't sure what to expect going into this, since I hadn't been to anyone's home here, nor have I ever formally tried to process a miscarriage with someone through a worship setting.  I was really thankful to be there though, since it felt right to acknowledge the death of this child.  So often, I hear the word "miscarriage" and I feel like the word itself implies wrong action or an incomplete action.  I guess a child dying in utero is an incomplete action, you could say, but it's not a "wrong" action.  Some close friends of mine had a miscarriage last year and I struggled with how to walk with them in their grieving, as well as my own grieving.

How do we honor parents who have experienced the death of a child in the womb?  Do we have a funeral?  What about a memorial service?  Perhaps some prayers?  Or do we just let it slip by, not wanting to force parents to deal with the death of a child?

This mother carried a child, as did my friend.  The child didn't suddenly go missing by some negligence, but the child died.  I think if we pretend that a child dying in utero is not painful, or worse yet, if that mother and father didn't begin to experience the life of that child, then we are lying to ourselves.  While this service was simple and allowed for space to acknowledge that the child had been created and was a precious creation, it also allowed the family to grieve the death of this child, mourning the future incompletes that were to come.

I wish I had some profound reflection on this otherwise, but it's late and I'm tired.  I'm not feeling particularly eloquent, but I am thankful for the way that this family chose to grieve together.  I also hope that we continue, as a society, to reflect on ways of talking about families and children, knowing that so many people in our midst have experienced the death of a child in utero, not knowing what the life could have held for their precious infant.

Music is my boyfriend...part numpa.

Mer, you wrote one blog post about CDs, do you really need to write a second?

Yes.  Yes, I do.

Part numpa (two) of the music series is a reflection on a recent mixed CD, made for me by my dear friend Alex.  He made me a stack of CDs to "get me through the drive" from Chicago-Pennsylvania-Chicago-Minnesota-South Dakota when I moved out here to start internship.  He titled them with some clever titles, referencing the long drive, such as, "Are we there yet?"  He made one that he titled "One hour to go" and instructed me that I wasn't allowed to listen to it until I was an hour away from Pine Ridge.

The anticipation killed me as I headed west.  I desperately wanted to know what was on that CD.  I popped it in the other day as I was driving back to Pine Ridge from a meeting.  The song that played as I pulled into town was Adele's "Hometown Glory."  To be clear, I did listen to it when I was an hour away from Pine Ridge.  Don't worry, Alex, I followed your instructions.

I've heard Adele say that she wrote the song to honor her hometown of London.  I've never spent time in London, aside from a layover, but I think the idea of pride or love for the place you come from is important.

As I spend more time at Pine Ridge, I find myself figuring out what it means to call this place "home" for a year, knowing that it is finite.  I will leave in August of 2013, regardless of how much I fall in love with it here or how much I hate it here.  Driving back into town, listening to Adele serenade me with "Hometown Glory," I realized that Pine Ridge has become home.  When I'm in Sioux Falls, Pine Ridge is home.  When I'm in Oglala, Pine Ridge is home.  When I'm in Rapid City, Pine Ridge is home.  And while I'm not completely sure what "home" means right now, I'm appreciative of Adele's words from the first stanza:

No, and thank you, please madam, I ain't lost, just wandering.

I'm not lost, I just keep wandering, moving from place to place, going where I can learn and try and be challenged by what God has created in this world and what we have destroyed in this world.

Music is my boyfriend.

I have a confession.

My name is Meredith and I am a mixed CD junkie.

I've got hundreds, probably, of mixed CDs.  Some are new, as recent as August, some are old, dating back to when I was in middle school.  Part of my love for mixed CDs are for the obvious reason: music.  I almost always have music playing in some form.  If I'm working at my computer, it's Pandora radio online.  When I drive, I alternate between the radio, my MP3 player and CDs.  I'm obsessed with music.

I also love mixed CDs for the time-keeping effect.

Huh?

I guess I see these CDs, mixed with a list of completely random songs, as a snapshot of history, perhaps even a journal entry.  I listen to the songs and remember how much I loved that song or that other one, when I made the CD.

Recently, I decided it was time to switch out some of the CDs in my car.  I pulled a few random CDs out of my book and headed out the door.  One of the ones I had pulled is labeled "TURKEY TIME" and is dated 11/22/06.  I remember making this mix CD when I was in college, headed home for Thanksgiving.

So, Meredith, why exactly are you blogging about a mixed CD from six years ago?

Because it showed me how much I've changed in the last six years.  I made this mixed CD to "get me through the drive home" from college.  I went to college an hour away from my family's home.  An hour.  One.  Hour.  And I needed a special mixed CD to get me through it?!  Hah!

I have literally flown across the world and back, several times, since that CD.  I've lived in four different states and two different countries.  An hour is a long drive?

But here's the thing: an hour was a long drive six years ago.  This CD was a tangible reminder of how much I've changed over the last six years and it makes me wonder how I'll change in the next six years.  Also, this CD was fun to listen to, because it included "I Need a Hero" from the Shrek soundtrack...which we sang in our seminary musical this spring.  Who would have thought that six years later I'd be learning a dance number to this song, using glowsticks and flashlights, to perform in a Katie Luther musical, all while being in seminary??!!

South Dakota ain't so bad...

Last week, I had the privilege of attending the Bear Butte Pastors' Conference Clergy Retreat.  The Bear Butte conference, pronounced Bear Bewt (rhymes with mute, as in, the button), is the collection of ELCA pastors and lay leaders in western South Dakota.

For the last two years in seminary, I've heard a lot of negative comments towards the 'Otas and Nebraska.  Let me back up.  Seminary is basically the most stressful four years of your life.  You begin your junior year, panicking over this transition to a new place with a new career path in mind, because you know, GOD IS CALLING YOU TO BE A PASTOR *said in a booming voice with thunder and lightening*.  By Christmas, you should have already applied to Clinical Pastoral Education (CPE) sites.  By Easter, you should have put in your preferences for your Ministry In Context (MIC) site for middler year.  By June, you've started CPE.  By mid-June, you've watched people die in the hospital and had at least one breakdown over frail human life and how are you incapable of ministering to people in this place and blah blah blah.  By August, you're back at seminary, starting your middler year.  By December of middler year, you've put in your internship paperwork.  By spring, you have an internship site, and BOOM, out the door you go to internship.  I can't tell you much about the timeline of internship for most people yet, but here's how mine has been:

1.) Oooh...new place!
2.) Oooh...new place.
3.) Ooooooooh....this....place......
4.) .....
5.) WhatAmIWritingAListAboutBecauseIDon'tHaveTimeToProcessInternshipOrEvenShower....?

After internship, senior year starts up fast.  By December, you've got assignment paperwork in for first call.  By February, you've got a region of where you'll be going, and it's all downhill from there.

So, for the last two years of my life, in addition to being stressed and exhausted and "stretched," I've tried to envision where my first call will be.  As I said earlier, we talk at LSTC about ending up in the 'Otas and Nebraska a lot, these states being less-than-ideal first calls.  For me, I think being out in the middle of nowhere scares me for first call, regardless of what state it is.

After getting to know the pastors in the Bear Butte Conference, I'd be okay with coming to South Dakota.  They are some FANTASTIC people!  I was also happy to attend a clergy retreat, since it's good to talk with others who are "in the field" trying to balance all of life's components, and keep healthy.

Some highlights included extraordinary conversations, lots of walks in the beautiful surroundings at Outlaw Ranch in Custer, SD, worship with beautiful voices and staying up late to laugh over ridiculous things.

In one of the smaller conversations, one pastor shared with me the reality of what it means to be a pastor in simple, rough terms.  "When we put on that stole at our ordination, we're putting on the bar, or the yoke, of our peoples' shit.  We are carrying around their shit with us."

And that, my friends, is why I am simultaneously honored and terrified to be a called and ordained minister in the ELCA.  We all walk around with so much weighing us down that, as a pastor, to be invited into that shit, I am happy to share that yoke with you.  At the same time, I need to learn how to process all of your difficulties as well as my own, in a healthy way, so that I don't get pulled down by that yoke.  So what do most pastors do?  Retreats.  Therapists.  Screaming.  Crying.  Whatever it takes to get it out.

After reading this blog post, please take a moment and honor the people who have carried a bit of your burden for you, at some point in your life.  I invite you to "honor" them in whatever you feel appropriate--send a note/email, perhaps pray for them.

Another highlight of this awesome weekend with these awesome pastors, was some awesome Taize and Iona worship.  Having spent time at Taize, I'm a fan of this worship.  I've never been to Iona, but I think I need to add it to my "Sabbaticals to Take Someday" list.  I'll leave you with these words from the Iona worship:

"We affirm God's goodness at the heart of humanity, planted more deeply than all that is wrong."

And, if the Church sends me to South Dakota, I know that God's promise to never again flood the earth,
also promises that God is there, holding me up as I am wearing the stole of the peoples' shit.
Thankful for this surprise rainbow reminder on my drive home from the clergy retreat.