Here We Are

I haven't written on this in about five years, it seems like. So much changes so fast...and at the same time, doesn't change at all. We grow up so much, learn so much...still fall on our faces in the same places over the same ruts in the road that have been there since long before we walked this way.

There is snow on the mountains, a lot of it, enough that we won't be on top of the Pryors again until next summer. There's something about Fall in Montana. You walk out the front door in the morning, look at the sunrise coming over the Wolf Mountains, and it's almost too beautiful, as if we can only look at it and just kind of stare, because the inside of me can't comprehend that much gold and light and shadow poured out over a little piece of mountains. So I stand there and call it beautiful, knowing that the word isn't the right size to fit the picture.

I'm still teaching. I love teaching. Sometimes I wish I knew more, wish I had lived more so that I could share more...but maybe that's what this road is about. We realize how little we know, and in that, we start to actually learn.

I miss packing horses. We've been at a ranch up north of town every weekend; maybe I'll start my colt on packs.

Ashley is here, our area director for YouthWorks. We were talking last night about missions, about life, about the rez, about the summers. I feel like I'm just starting to understand missions a little better. My friend Emmy used to talk about how people came to her town on the rez and would see it as dirty, run-down, an American version of poverty, would call it third-world...but to her, it was just home. And it wasn't dirty or run-down or impoverished; it was home. I think I'm starting to understand. When I drive around my town, I don't see those things either; if somebody came here and pointed them out, I think I would just look at them and frown and not understand. This is home. If I come here, if I am welcomed into this place and it is shared with me, who am I to take pictures and call it impoverished and dirty and run-down and go home and tell everyone what a great service I did? To the people who were there, who are here, it feels weird to even say that. If we welcome you as a guest, if we invite you into our own place, it isn't because we want to be helped or because we can't take care of ourselves. Sure, we have our problems; welcome to being part of humanity. But don't come here to help us and save us and to bring Jesus in your backpack; He is already here. He was here before you, before us, and will be here after we are gone. Come and meet Him here with us, come and learn alongside us, come and teach us while we teach you. Come and be part of humanity with us. But don't come and call our town dirty and impoverished. This is our home, and it's beautiful -- not because I say it is, but because it just is. Imperfect and beautiful can both fit into the same sentence. If you want to come, come as a guest. Don't come to save us. It has already been done; HE has already done that. Come and walk towards Him alongside us.

There are clouds on the mountains, but you can still see all the way to the tops.

My desk is a mess. My little brother and my cousin-sister were throwing my papers all around yesterday. Probably I should tackle that. Happy football season.

Wherever you are, I hope you see the life that is in that place. See the battle, see the shadows, see the blood that is on your elbows and knees and maybe even your face. But know that there is a lot of life on both sides of the mountains.

Maybe in spending too long chasing the sunset, we forget to turn and watch that same sun rise in the east. Be careful that the wind doesn't turn your lodge. Point your door to the east, hold His hand in the darkness, and smile as you wait for first light.

It is coming over the Wolf Mountains as we speak.