Prayer

by eric jones

I stepped daily from the cleansing river and lifted my arms toward the Creator, casting my eyes upon Heaven and all below it, and thanked Him aloud for my life and for His bounty –corn, beans and squash bursting forth from the earth, forests of deer and bear –all that I needed for my family, He provided.

Then came the strangers, who taught me to pray their way –sitting in a dark house once a week, eyes closed, shoulders bowed toward the Underworld, silently thanking God only for my sin.

White Father says now that I am Christian I should no longer bathe daily, and these clothes from his store for my children have never been washed. They are starting to smell like animals as they learn White Father’s language and forget their own.

Once during prayers, I looked up toward the sky, but there was only ceiling. I looked out toward the forests, but there were only walls. This house smells of unwashed bodies and of the drink that White Father brings to my chief and the elders who are still living but no longer hunt.

As White Father mumbles his prayer for my sin, I stare at my feet, which could not cross the mossy log or river rocks in these heavy black boots. I will leave these boots behind the house, put on the deer hide shoes I made and disappear into the forest. Returning to the river, I will bathe in the cleansing water, then lift my eyes and voice once again to thank the Creator for all His bounty.