I liked feeling useful, and I especially liked feeling important. And traveling to the Reserve to help look after the children, teach Sunday School, clean up and fix up, and generally just help out at the church made me feel needed.
My first few trips up there were nothing very special... or rather, I didn't see anything that really mattered, as I was so focused on myself. I was in grade seven, maybe, when I first started going up there with my Dad and the Youth Group.
We'd always go to a lake with the team before arriving to pick up the kids for church, and we'd pray together. I always found it a bother, because I just wanted to get there and start having fun. I liked helping there because I felt older and more mature. I never came away with any lasting impressions or lessons- mainly because I never went there with an open heart.
God started to open my heart maybe around my 6th trip. I was expecting a regular day up at the Reserve, but God decided to devastate me, instead. I invite you to experience that trip with me. This was the first of many experiences there that proved to be turning points in my life.
The Sun Child
Finally, it was time to leave. It had been just my Dad and I the whole day, and we were exhausted. The clingy children of the Reserve didn't want to see us go, but it was already six o'clock and we didn't want to be home at midnight again.
We had finished dropping off the kids at their flea-filled, dingy homes. I felt a pang of pity, or maybe it was compassion. Many of them we dropped off at their friend's homes, because we knew the people who lived at their own houses would probably not treat them well. Broken beer bottles were scattered all across the street. Whenever we drove past the shacks, big dirty wolf-like dogs would bark at us savagely, and chase our big blue van for a ways, running right up alongside it and trying to nip at the tires.
We dropped off a whole load at the safest house- all of them were friends. They didn't bother to call their parents to tell them where they'd be spending the night, because most of their parents wouldn't care, anyways.
Usually we take a team of 5-10 youth up north past Rocky Mountain House to the Reserve, and lead Sunday School using dramas and songs for the children up there. Well, this time, nobody had shown up. It was just my Dad and I. We had been there all day, and had traveled four and a half hours to get there. I was tired. I was ready to go home and have a nice hot supper, and then snooze. But God had difference circumstances ready to be brought into my life.
We had just finished cleaning up the little church and cleaning out the Sunday School tents, and all the kids had been dropped off at each other's homes- wherever they wanted to spend the next few days. We didn't always know who lived where, but we prayed that they would be safe wherever they decided to stay.
Driving back up the dirt road to say goodbye to the leaders of the church, we were greeted by an unexpected scene. Up ahead, we saw a group of people all talking in hushed, concerned voices. The looks on their faces made me nervous to know what was going on. My dad and I exchanged apprehensive glances as we parked the big ol' van, and then slowly exited.
As we approached the small crowd, I heard someone weeping. One lady was holding something wrapped up in a blanket. As I came closer- I saw that it was an infant. All the attention was directed at the newborn baby. She was beautiful. She had big dark eyes and a head full of delicate, black hair. Her name was Izalia, and she had come to us just as we had left to drop off the kids. She had arrived in a not-s-good manner.
I looked questioningly at our leader. "Her mother has abandoned her," she told me through tears and sobs. I didn't grasp her meaning. Nothing like this had ever come into my safe and secure life. I had heard about children being abandoned, but it always seemed surreal- like those things only happened in alternate universes. But, here I stood, and here was this orphaned baby.
"The mother was only seventeen. She came here not ten minutes ago, running. She saw me and thrust the baby into my arms, shouting 'Take her! Take my baby!' She was desperate, and I didn't know what to do. At first, I refused and tried to calm the lady down. But she persisted. 'Her father is looking for me! He is drunk and will hurt us! You MUST take her! Please!' I was stunned and took the baby. She whispered 'Thank you,' and then she ran off in the opposite direction. I thought I knew the father, though her description of him could describe many men in these parts. But now, here we are with an abandoned baby. We need to pray." Our leader broke down into sobs and gasps, but managed to utter words of prayer, and we all joined her in praying fervently.
The first order of business was to find the closest relative of the baby. One of the other leaders knew the mother and her sister- it happened to be a girl that regularly attended the church. But judging by her lifestyle and actions, the messages were going in one ear and out the other. She could be anywhere. She often stayed at one of her boyfriends' houses, or with her friends, or out on the street. She was a few months older than me. We drove around asking her boyfriends and classmates, but to no avail. One lady we didn't know seemed to recognize the girl's name, and said she was off with her friend and walking around the reserve.
We drove to the School, as the gazebo in the yard seemed to be a popular teenage hangout. Sure enough, there she was with her friend, cigarette in hand, and looking very unimpressed with our arrival. She protested, but we told her to come with us and promised we would explain on the way. We asked her many questions about the mom, the dad, and anybody that would be able to take the baby in. We had a few options. We didn't like any of them. But, we did find out that Izalia had another sibling, in a roundabout way.
We drove for what seemed like an eternity, but found a family with a two-year-old girl. The family couldn't take care of her, as they felt she wasn't safe from the neighbors. They begged us to take the two-year-old and the infant to child services. They wouldn't take no for an answer. The two-year-old had a blanket and a doll with her, and that was all she took. We guided her into the car, and she said good-bye to her parents. Now, we were left with two orphaned children, an uncooperative teenager, and no place to go. I couldn't wrap my mind around the suddenness and the chaos of the situation.
Two of our teammates agreed to take the three girls in for a few days back at home, but they were college students and couldn't keep them there. We tried to call Child Services, with two major problems: First, the reception out at the reserve was terrible. Secondly, Child services, when we could finally contact them, was of no help. They told us that they didn't deal with First Nations children- that some treaty with the Canadian aboriginal peoples prevented them from intervening with family problems. The only solution was to take the kids to the United States. The couple decided that they wouldn't take the kids back home, they would just drive straight to America.
I couldn't believe what was going on. How could something like this happen to us? We didn't ask for this! We really had nothing to do with this, and yet here we were , bogged down with this massive problem and automatically set in charge of it.
The teenage girl behind me in the van was having a meltdown. She didn't want to go. We went back to her house to tell her parents what was going on. They were indifferent to the news that their daughter was being taken to the States. She packed some clothes and belongings and we left again. By the time we finally got off the reserve it was ten at night. The whole way back home was an awkward drive. Two abandoned babies in the back. Every time one of them cried, we were painfully reminded of what was going on. A hardened teenager, who wanted nothing to do with us... it would be a miracle if she ever came back to the church, at that point. In the back of the van, the couple cared for the newborn, trying to comfort the orphan and the toddler. My father was just concentrating on the road- he was lucky to have something TO concentrate on, other than the task at hand.
Every time I sneaked a glance behind me at the tragedy in the back of the van, my eyes welled up with tears. But I didn't let them fall. I didn't want these girls to see me and think that their lives were hopeless, because that wasn't true. Yet, I couldn't erase the shock from my mind that I was literally part of their stories. This event, even though it was rocking my perspectives and views on a lot of things- it was literally erupting their lives, right before my eyes. And years from then, if they came to know Christ, this would be part of their testimony. These orphans would be leaving my area of influence soon, and their tragedy would continue, while I would go back to my nice, warm home and loving family and made some supper for myself. There was something so wrong to that picture, and it took me so long to realize it. I'd always considered me and my friends 'privileged' because of our position and fortunate lives. That day unraveled the truth: I had been falling victim to the spirit of luxury and laziness. It took an abandoned baby to spark a passion for the lost world.
That day, my eyes were opened to the cruelty of the world. Tragic stories don't only happen in movies. I was part of one. I don't know where those three kids are now, but I still pray for them. God showed me that this is a corrupt world that's in desperate need of a doctor. For now, I'm just a nurse. I'm not well educated in missions, but I now am trying to be more compassionate and understanding of situations like that one. God can give me the wisdom I need to be a light to everyone I come in contact with. I have to learn not to judge. I pray that those kids will not become hardened to God's voice because of what happened. I pray someone will come into their lives and teach them the truth- it could even be me. There are millions of people just like those girls that I can and should be reaching out to right now. Some of them live in my neighborhood and town.
My next memoir goes back to a day after the first eye-opening experience, and opened my eyes even wider than they were. In fact, if my memory is correct, it might have been the next trip I made up to the Reserve.
No More Innocence
It might have been more than a month after that first devastating day that we finally planned a trip back to the Reserve. I had expected to be scared to go back- scared to find more of the same tragedy that I had seen last time. But when my alarm went off that morning too early for comfort- I found myself not crawling out of bed in agony, but bounding up with excitement. I was EXCITED! When I tried to figure out why, I realized that it was because I had a new passion. I had made a decision to start reaching out like never before, and to start loving those kids like crazy. I was determined to be the light of Christ that day. Of course, I had no idea what that would entail, until I got there.
After the familiar three-hour road trip and prayer at the lake, we were finally there. I was so giddy with excitement and confidence, I felt nothing could hold me back from loving on these kids like Jesus would. After picking up about 20 kids in our van, we all piled into the teeny church room. The morning started out like it always did. The kids were obligated to welcome my team, we led them in a few action songs, prayed over them, and then got read to disperse into the different age groups for Sunday School.
I had been looking forward to this, because I always got to go assist in the teen girl's tent. The last time I had been in there, we had had some super interesting discussions. I remembered one girl informing me that Jesus only saved white people- so she didn't see the point of her and her Native friends coming to church. I had no idea people believed that, and wanted to hear more of their perspective, and be there when the leader told them the truth. I had expected the leader to pounce on that statement and immediately proclaim it as a lie, and a little to my disappointment, she didn't. She was so calm and loving and actually encouraged the girl to tell us more about what she thought. The conversation that followed was very casual, not condemning or loud. Was that what witnessing was all about?
I was excited to see more of that type of interaction, and was about to follow the girls out the door to the tent- when the church leader pulled me aside to ask me for a favour. "Karis," she said, "I know you usually help out with the girls' Sunday School, but could you help me out, just for today, and look after Dallas?" She motioned to a little three or four-year-old boy trying to climb onto the table on the other side of the room.
I recognized him from that morning when we had picked up the kids. He was too young to come- the church service was strictly for kids 5 years old and up, but he had nobody to look after him and home and looked like he really wanted to come along, so we had made an exception.
I felt a pang of annoyance. Sure, he was cute, but I really wanted to do something meaningful with the girls who were my age, not spend the day playing games with a four-year-old. However, I agreed to be his personal babysitter for the day. And with that, my fate was sealed. (A bit over dramatic, I realize, but somehow fitting.)
It seems that after I committed to being Dallas' bodyguard, I had to only blink, and my day was turned into a nightmare. I coaxed the boy to follow me outside, where I was sure he wouldn't be able to do any damage. Nature is good at healing itself. But the moment we stepped out the door, Dallas was gone. He took off in a millisecond. He was halfway down the dirt road before I could process the moment. Of course, I had to take off running after him. Who knew a kid a third my age could be three times as fast as me?
I grabbed him around the middle and hauled him, kicking and screaming, back into the church yard. I felt like a monster, and I felt the tug of despair. It had been less than five minutes and I was sure this child already hated me with his entire being. But what was I supposed to do?
I brought him around the back of the building to a tree with a tire swing hanging from it. He was delighted with it, and I was allowed a moment to catch my breath and collect my thoughts. I looked down at the little boy lying on his belly through the tire, giggling to himself as he swung back and forth. I noticed at that moment that he had no shoes on. His little bare feet, smaller than my hands, were cracked and bleeding and blistered badly. I was appalled and took his hand and said, "Dallas, where are your shoes?"
I expected him to either point at the church, laugh at the question, or just not answer. What I got instead was enough to throw me off my feet. "F*** you!" I stared at the child as he laughed at his own profanity. Did I really just hear that from the mouth of a four-year-old child? He must have liked the look of shock on my face, because he said it again. And again. He pointed at me and repeated himself, louder and louder until I just wanted to run away. I was scared.
Not knowing what else to do, I sat down beside the tree and just stared at him. I felt like crying. I wasn't angry, I wasn't disappointed- I just felt sadness. I thought of the ten-year-olds back at home who have never heard words like that. I thought of what he must be hearing in his house every day to be able to mimic that.
Realizing he wasn't getting any reaction from me, he stopped swinging, stood on the thorny ground, ran up to me and kicked me. Hard. That caught my attention, and by the time I had stood up, he had taken off, yet again, laughing at his ingenuity. I cornered him, and my chance came to grab him. If I were back in my hometown, dealing with a child at my home church, I probably would have spoken sternly to them. I would have tried to communicate how disobedient they were being. But this wasn't my hometown. This wasn't my home church.
Most of my day consisted of chasing Dallas. He would hide from me, and the only I would find him was by the constant obscenities he yelled in my direction, and then his little childlike laughter that always followed. If I got close enough to catch him, he would throw something- anything- at me. He punched me, hit me, kicked me, pulled my hair, fought me. All day. I had to constantly apologize to the leaders of the Sunday Schools that we were disrupting. Nobody would help me. Nobody had any time to help me chase this little Native boy around the church grounds. I felt so desperate and tired. I didn't want this job in the first place. I had planned to spend this day loving on the kids with RESULTS. I was hoping I could make some friendships with the Native children here that would LAST, so that I could have important conversations with them. The last thing I wanted was to be in charge of a little four-year-old who wasn't meant to be here in the first place, and who obviously didn't want my supervision.
I was so angry with him and with myself and with the woman who had put me in charge of him. At one point I gave up on chasing him. I saw him run and hide in the brambles, and instead of going in after him, I turned around and just walked away. I was so done with everything and I was bawling my eyes out. I felt like a failure. I felt like there was nothing I could do to get to little four-year-old Dallas. The thing that surprised me however, was when I tried to give up and leave him to play in the brambles all by himself, he didn't want me to go. He got up and ran after me! He climbed onto my back and held onto my leg with a death grip. He wanted me with him, even though he didn't listen to me. It occurred to me how deprived of real love he was. But when I would reach out to touch him, he'd run off again.
After at least an hour of crying and feeling like there was nobody in the world who cared enough to help me, I finally found him in a corner- and I had him trapped. And as I saw little Dallas cowering there with a huge grin on his face like this was all just a game, I knew that a lecture was the last thing he needed. I grabbed him, but I didn't frown or scowl. I picked little Dallas up, and kissed him. Right on the cheek. Back home, that little action probably would have been reported to the parents, and my children's coordinators would have talked to me very seriously about what I had done. They would have given me a long speech about the dangers of physical contact, and would have warned me never to do it again. I work in a town where side hugs are BARELY deemed 'okay,' and where sitting on laps and carrying kids is right out of the picture.
But here, where the only physical contact these kids are familiar with are beatings, whippings, sexual abuse, or nothing at all- I knew exactly what he needed. I clutched him to myself and began spinning around, swooping him down and then tossing him in the air and catching him, nuzzling his dirty face against my own. The boy was delighted. At the moment, I was surprised at my own change of attitude. But now I thank God for showing me what the boy needed. Not discipline, not anger, just crazy, crazy love.
The turnaround was so instant, I couldn't believe it. Suddenly, I was his favourite person in the universe. Instead of running away, he insisted on climbing all over me, holding my hand, hugging me tight, and not letting me get too far away. We played together for the rest of the day. I was more tired than I had ever been in my life. But it didn't matter, because as the day progressed, God lifted my heart and I saw that this was why I was brought here. I had an agenda, but so did God. And Dallas was who He chose for me to be Jesus to.
By 12:30 that afternoon, the boy still hadn't run out of energy. I couldn't run anymore, I was exhausted. I picked him up, spun him around by his arms a few times, and then decided to turn my attention to his feet. They were torn up and bloodied badly. He was obviously used to it, but I couldn't stand it. I brought him into the church, and the church leader told me I should give him a bath. How crazy is that? How many times do you see a child go to church to have a bath?! But here, every week some children got to have a bath. It was a luxury they didn't get at home- especially not the younger ones. If they couldn't bathe themselves, they didn't get bathed.
As I cleaned his cuts with warm water and washed all the mud off of him and scrubbed his thick black hair- the looks he gave me were enough to melt my heart. He splashed the water on me, and we laughed together. It was such a special moment- I couldn't forget it even if I tried.
Dallas was my project for the day, and he turned into my lesson, as well. For, at the end of the day, when we drove the children back to their houses in the Native community, I was exposed to how important my Jesus-love was for Dallas. At Dallas' home, I carried him out of the van, for the hot bath had finally made him sleepy. But when we got out of the van, another car pulled up behind us with girls I didn't recognize. But Dallas recognized the driver in a heartbeat. "Mama!!" He shouted, and squirmed out of my grasp. He ran up to the car to wave at his Mum in the front seat, who looked to be about 15. She was smoking and laughing with her friends.
He looked like he wanted to hug her, and as I watched, I was filled with horror. She had no loving embrace or kiss to give her son. Instead, she swore at him. He called her names I had never heard before, but they still burned my ears. And after she was done yelling abuse at her son, she laughed with her friends about it. And Dallas laughed, too. Dallas. My new Native four-year-old friend laughed, and swore right back at her, repeating word-for-word what she had just said to him. I was shocked.
'So this is the world these children grow up in- these are the people that influence their thinking. This is his teenage mother, who will probably never think twice about what happens to her accidental son. I wonder if she remembers who the father is.'
As I stared at the boy who was barely as tall as my waist, I was struck with the terrible irony that, in a way, I was more innocent in my knowledge of the world than he was.
Dallas toddled back toward me, seemingly unaffected by the string of harsh language that had just been thrown at him. I hugged him. Hard. I didn't let him see that I was on the verge of tears, but inside I was sobbing. I said good-bye to him, and He gave me the gift of a grin. And then it was time to leave.
I have seen and experienced bits and pieces of these kids lives myself, and have been questioned on my thoughts on their beliefs. It's scary seeing how the kids younger than me have been robbed of their innocence, and are exposed to drugs, sex, smoking, and drinking before Junior High.
I saw their mouths filled with unwholesome words, and their minds filled with perverted thoughts. I've been confronted by a drunken father, stumbling out of the woods ragged and dirty, who couldn't tell his child from the next.
It never seems like we could ever do enough to help them. It's maddening, but it's also comforting. We will never be able to do enough. But God uses what we CAN give and what we CAN do, and makes it enough, because He is enough. The things He does through us will be enough. It is God who opens people's hearts to the words we say, and their eyes to our actions. God opened Dallas' eyes that day, and God used me as the instrument of His love. Who knew that chasing a wild, dirty, cussing four-year-old around a yard for a day was part of God's plan for my life?
Religion is for White Folk
It was my first time getting a chance to help out in the teenage girls Sunday School. After we had finished our opening session in the main room, a time of song and prayer, I followed the group of teens out of the building to the Sunday School tent. They didn't bother talking to me much- I was somewhat the outcast.
We started off by teaching the girls how to make a craft- we gave them each a block of wood, and an assortment of coloured beads. I had made the example earlier- a cross in the centre with a decorative border. As the girls got busy with the glue and beads, the teacher began making conversation with them.
We got on the topic of names. Apparently, most of the kids on the Reserve had a common name that they went by, but also a traditional Native name. They went around the circle, telling us their Native names. They were beautiful! They sounded so mysterious.
One of the girls then asked me and the teacher if we had any alternative name. Her friend immediately nudged her with her elbow saying, "Are you kidding me? They're white. They only go by their Christian name."
I didn't know how to respond- I was already feeling very shy as I was different, and younger than all of these girls. With a laugh, the teacher asked the girl what she meant by 'Christian names.' "Oh, you know- white people can be Christians so they only go by that name."
I started to get an understanding. The teacher asked the girl, "Aren't you a Christian?"
The girl snorted. Then smirked and said ,"Of course not. I'm Native. Natives can't be Christians. It doesn't work for us."
Kindly and gently, the teacher tried to convince the girl that Christianity was for all people, regardless of race or skin colour. The girl wouldn't hear it. She shook her head, looking very unimpressed. The other girls in the room didn't know who to believe- their close friend, or their teacher?
"When the Jesus man came, he was white. He died for the white people. So only the rich white people can become Christians. That's how it works." The girl was convinced of that. She didn't seem bitter or jealous, she just stated what she believed to be fact.
We finished the art project- the girls laughing with each other about something that happened at school, but the teacher and I had heavy hearts. How are we supposed to reach out to people that don't believe it's possible to be accepted by Christ? How do we prove to them that Jesus does not see heritage or background? How do we show them?
It's no wonder there is so much desperation and depression on the Reserve. They grow up thinking Jesus is beyond their reach.
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