Summer 2022

It was about 1969. The four-wheel drive pickup was chugging and bouncing along. The canyon trail was made by Indians on horseback. Then widened as family’s adapted to the buckboard wagon. The going was very slow and I had to hold on tight to the steering wheel. A bobcat crossed my path looking at me as though I didn’t belong. The cat was right, but here I am and here we go. At last, I was on top of the canyon. Far below I could see the trails and small hogan homes, near by each home was a sheep corral. The Navajo people are farmers and shepherds. In springtime, the lambs are born and sleep in the homes with there owners. That way the cold nights or coyotes can’t cause them harm.
I gaze for a long time viewing the landscape of a people who survived the long walk, disease and loss of family members through the generations. And still They smile, sing and embrace each new day. Many still rise early to great the rising sun with hands lifted singing thanks for its power to grow crops and heal the body. It makes me wonder if I am as earnest in my thanks as they are. We can learn from our surroundings and people we come in contact with.
I continue down the trail. The Pinon trees are full and in the fall their nuts bring much joy to the Navajo. The small nut is full of nutrients. They are looked on as a medicine. Then I saw something high in one Pinon tree. I stopped the vehicle and approached slowly. Soon I realized I was seeing something that is not done these days. It was a ”burial tree” for an infant. The body was on a small scaffold and placed about eight feet off the ground. The tree would forever be called a “burial tree” The child would be under a year old. It would be wrapped tight secured lovingly and placed as I saw this one. I would soon be visiting the family related to the child that passed from this world. The mother of course would change her name so the child’s spirit could not find her. I whispered a prayer and continued on my way. The smell of smoke was in the air, I would follow it.
An hour later the path narrowed, I saw something move behind some tumble weeds. An animal I wondered? Then a small Indian boy came to me. His eyes were crying, he was very dirty and bare foot. His feet were bruised and bleeding. He wore no pants. That was normal, pants were not useful and would be in the way of training him how to “go”. He had fallen down into the canyon and was scared. Where’s your mama I asked him in Navajo. He pointed his finger sobbing “mama” I followed his finger as he pointed the way. At last, there ahead was mama standing outside their hogan home looking worried. Sha-ma sha-ma he cried running into her arms. “I sent him to get wood she said but I think he lost himself.” I said in my head, another child sent to do a big boy’s job.
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1980’s Life was slowly changing on the reservation. As told to me by Betty Rose. Go ahead shoot me she said to her husband and teenage son. They held shot guns on her ready to fire. Shoot me Betty Rose said. We will! they shouted. Get that Jesus out of your heart or we will shoot you. Do it she said. Jesus is in my heart and He will stay there. You put Him in there, you can take Him out
they demanded, because we don’t like your Jesus. They continued to shout at her. Go ahead she said, shoot me, but Jesus stays in my heart. I’ll go to Heaven and be rid of you and you’ll go to hell.
In time, through many struggles, family members came together and did receive Jesus and grew in faith. This new faith-filled many homes and continues to this day.
Every home is different where I visit. One stands out. An Indian boy of about seven was home alone. Children alone was normal and still is. I asked about his family. Just me home he said. Here I was in the middle of the vast reservation and only one child home. Well I decided, I’ll rest then go on my way. Wanna play he asked. Sure I agreed, why not. OK he said, you the bad guy and me the sheriff, give me your hands. With that he clicked handcuffs on me. A while later I decided this game is over. I twisted my hands, nothing happened. I looked closer at the cuffs. They didn’t look like toys anymore. Stay calm I said to myself. I asked in a sweet voice, how do I get these things off? With a sweet smile back at me he said I don’t know where the key is. I think my daddy has it he’s a cop.
Soon eight weeks of summer school will start. Our Navajo Indian children want to attend. Also, during covid so many children were dropped off at homes and never reclaimed. They also want to attend school. Let’s get together and make classroom supplies available to “all” the children. Many of the native teachers were toddlers when I arrived fifty-four years ago. The teachers are thrilled when we arrive with much-needed supplies. We can do the shopping to save you the shipping. Go with us in prayer as we continue on the trails.
With Much Love and Appreciation,
Sylvia and Sylvia
P.S. Because of Covid 2,000 Navajo Indian Children have no parents. They are hurting, let’s help as many as we can.