My Soul Is Haunted and Hurting for the Navajo

I woke up this morning and rolled out of bed, taking for granted the quality of sleep afforded me by my tempurpedic mattress. As I sat at the edge of my bed, I wiped my eyes and silently thanked God for the day, taking for granted the fact that I knew God was available to talk and actually wanted to hear from me. I stumbled into the kitchen and poured a glass of water because the air conditioning I take for granted had been so cold throughout the night that my throat was dry. I drank the water from the tap, taking for granted the ease of access and the quality of the contents of my glass. By this time, my body was warming up, and so my stumbling turned into a walk. As I went back into the bedroom, I opened my drawers filled with the multitude of clothes I take for granted. After I was dressed I slipped out the door telling my wife and daughter, those healthy and loving family members I take for granted, that I love them. I hopped into the car filled with the gas that is nearly four dollars per gallon, and, even so, I took for granted, even at such a premium, the fuel that I burnt between home and here at the coffee shop. As I sit here and peer out at the sun light, I am struck by an eerie reality.

The sun that has been pouring out over this little south Georgian island for almost two hours now is just now peering over the ridges of the Navajo Nation’s plateaus, spilling into the valleys, and crashing into the little tin roofs that cover the precious heads of the people called Navajo. For so many, there is no mattress to awake upon. There is no knowledge of the Holy One who wishes to speak with each of them. If water is available, which is not always the case, it is full of uranium and e coli. As they sip the water before passing the cup to their siblings, the heat in the house slowly rises, and the window unit is out today, as it is so many days. Each child goes to his or her designated corner and does not have to dig through piles of clothes to decide what to wear. All that each child owns is right there before him or her in a small stack. It is now reaching temperatures in the nineties, yet one of the young boys slips on his North Face jacket that some kind soul from thousands of miles away sent him at Christmas. It is his prize possession, so he wears it. As he turns around, he sees his mother drinking out of a cup, but he knows it is not water. She’s doing it again, which means he is in charge of taking care of his siblings. There is no car to drive to the nearest hangout. It is just the family, alone in the dilapidated singlewide trailer in the desert. And the sun relentlessly beats at all sides.

It is easy to feel passionate about the peoples of the world right after feeling the spiritual brokenness afforded by a short-term mission. Piety fills the veins and righteous indignation strikes to the bone and shakes us to our core. We shiver when seeing the waste of our own culture, including our own. Resolution to be better sets in. We walk and talk a little bit differently, and this is good. However, those children are still out there, and we are here. Fear sets in because I know the routine. The wound is fresh in my heart, but it will eventually close up, and, while the scar tissue remains, I will become use to it again. I do not want it to close; I want to bleed. Although it hurts, I do not want to forget this pain. The wound beckons me to action; my mind moves a thousand miles a minute, revolving around the needs of the Navajo, but, again, I am here and they are there, and I wonder, timidly, how God is going to use this pain. I have yet been called to move my family to full time missions, but I know the need is there and my heart sinks into my stomach when I think of how forgotten the Navajo really are.I wonder respectfully what God is up to with the Navajo, and the "Whys" fill my mind...

Sunday, I awoke from my post-mission trip crash, and had yet to fully recover. As I walked into the church, I knew my eyes would grow increasingly heavy. I resolved that God would understand if I dozed off here and there. While God understood, my wife did not, and she jabbed her sharp elbow into my rib cage. I came to just in time to hear the preacher introduce a couple who will be moving to Haiti for a life of mission work. As I heard of the call that God had placed on their lives, and the deep understanding they had of God’s mission in and for the world, I began to covet, for the sake of the Navajo, the call they had for the Haitian people. Do not misunderstand what I am about to say. I know God has called these people to Haiti, but I cannot help but wonder. In light of the massive influx of missionaries to places like Haiti and Kenya and China, when is God going to call for such a convergence upon the Reservations of the Native Americans who are as lost, if not more lost, than the peoples of the foreign world. Why are the Navajo so forgotten? They sit in our backyard, hopeless and ignored. HOPELESSNESS. For even very young children like Sabrina, who was fourteen the first time our team reached out to her family and community, suicide seems to be the only option out of the hopelessness they awake to every day. Hopelessness over took this child, and she did that thing most of us find to be unimaginable. I once heard it said that when we wish to ask, “Where is God in this place,” our question should be, “Where are God’s people?” God resides in our hearts, and He goes with us to the far reaches of the world and even to the backyard. Who will God send, or even more to the point, who is God trying to send, and are they listening?

I have been sitting here writing for some time now, trying to express this painfully consuming thought that I just cannot express, because it is more of an emotion than an idea. I am not sure I will ever be able to express what I feel, but I think I can tell you an idea that it elicits each time it washes upon the shore of my heart. This feeling is closely associated with the realization that, while I am home safe and sound, the reservation is still there. It is a real place where real people live, precious people, forgotten people. For so many, it is an uncomfortable home and not a place to visit like it is for me. At this very moment, some two thousand miles away, those precious children are living, breathing, feeling, wanting, and many feel hopeless. Right now, as I think about these children, they are living. Even outside my reach, they still exist. Savannah and Eli are out there, in need of help, in need of love, in need of God, and here I sit, heart broken and bleeding. And I wonder, whom will God send. Is it I Lord? I know He has a plan for the Navajo, and I must take solace in His love and provision, but I am begging you, Oh, Lord, my God, do not allow this wound to close. I wish to bleed.

For now, God has me where He wants me, but He has called me to raise awareness for these forgotten souls, these precious people:

I, the Lord of sea and sky
I have heard my people cry
All who dwell in dark and sin
My hand will save:

I who made the stars and night
I will make the darkness bright
Who will bear my light to them?
Whom shall I send?

Here I am Lord
Is it I Lord?
I have heard you calling in the night
I will go Lord
If you lead me
I will hold your people in my heart

I the Lord of snow and rain,
I have borne my people's pain,
I have wept for love of them,
They turn away...

I will break their hearts of stone
Fill their hearts with love alone
I will speak my word to them
Whom shall I send?

Here I am Lord
Is it I Lord?
I have heard you calling in the night
I will go Lord
If you lead me
I will hold your people in my heart

I, the Lord of wind and flame
I will tend the poor and lame
I will set a feast for them
My hand will save:

Finest bread I will provide
Till their hearts be satisfied
I will give my life to them
Whom shall I send?

Here I am Lord
Is it I Lord?
I have heard you calling in the night
I will go Lord
If you lead me
I will hold your people in my heart

("Here I am Lord" -Dan Schutte)

He is calling, and we must listen. His heart breaks, and ours should as well...

TM