Good Friday Past

This is an entry from Easter, 2004, from my old blog that is closing down.

Good Friday Past
This is how I spent my Good Friday morning.
And it was a good Friday.
I delivered Easter baskets to needy Pima Indians on the Salt River Reservation. The Social Ministry Committee of our church, Shepherd of the Desert Lutheran Church, prepared Easter baskets last week, filled with the usual candy and stuffed animals, plus some Christian literature [age appropriate], and some hygiene products as well. Making the baskets was a fun morning in and of itself, but because it was a group of women there was naturally some delicious food to nosh on after our work was done. :)
Today we delivered the baskets. After receiving my assignment, loading my car, and getting my driving instructions, I set off down the 101 freeway awed by the clear air made fresh last night by an AZ rain [called a sprinkle in Wisconsin]. The mountains showed their crooks, crannies, and colors. The Mummies, Camelback with the Praying Monk on his nose, the South Mountains, Twin Buttes, the Superstitions way off to the East, Four Peaks racing along beside me while the McDowell and Black Mountains retreated in my rear view mirror, all added to the immersion into my reservation experience that was modulated by the Indian music I had playing in the CD. I was struck as I drove down the 101, by the two worlds that live next to each other here. And when I came to the Indian School Road exit, I turned away from the upscale buildings and homes of Scottsdale, into the desert. Into the Reservation.
The line is sharp
There is no question as to where this boundary lies. I felt lifted and joyous
As my tires traveled the roads of the Rez, my mind traveled the memories of my days at Phoenix Indian Medical Center in downtown Phoenix. I could hear the musical quality of the speech of different tribes. I could smell the scrambled eggs with green chilies that was often served for breakfast. I could hear the scraping sound of the toco as a laboring mother rolled over in bed and upset the transmission of the baby's heartbeat. I could see the corn pollen on a mother's skin that the Medicine Man had applied, and could remember clearly my surprise at the positive power it had to lower blood pressure and assuage pain. I could feel the weight of a labor bed as we pushed it quickly through the halls for an emergency C-section. I could feel the sticky little eye lids of a screaming baby as I pulled them open to be treated with the medication that is law. I could see the shockingly dramatic black cap of hair on the baby's head. I could look into the little face as I treated the baby to his/her first shampoo and style, and yes, a baptism. I confess: I baptized the babies committed to my keeping after their birth. It was the simple "In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost" and I added a prayer for a blessed life, happiness, and health.
I worried about my little Indian babies. And as far as I was made aware, two of my babies were killed by their parents in their first year of life. But they were from up north. Not from Gila River or Salt River Reservations.
Ahhhhh, not today. I turn them over to God today. Today was for the little ones who lived, little ones to whom I was bringing the Easter message of Hope.
I found them as I had left them 25 years ago.
Oh, my goodness. It has been 25 years since I left the Indian Hospital. But the memories are so fresh and alive. So real. So meaningful.
And, as I traveled to the Rez homes; avoided the Rez dogs running loose on the roads; stepped over what was between the car and the front door; smelled the wonderful cooking aromas of food fried in lard; discussed a wound infection on a diabetic woman's foot; heard about the egg hunt at school; discussed an allergy problem on a Rez dog that was dearly loved by a little girl as she held tight her Easter basket; wondered why the woman of one house didn't seem like she could get out of her Lazy-Boy; saw men hanging over the engine of a truck; looked into eyes that where open, honest, and willing, but tired, oh so tired; I recalled again why my few years, my few lowly years of staff nursing in high risk OB on the 4 to midnight shift at Phoenix Indian Medical Center feels so close, so recent. Despite what I believe was a successful career that included positions of prestige, influence, and power, my work was at PIMC. What I did at PIMC was my most meaningful experience.
And satisfying.
Yes, satisfying. It's not that it was so much that I did. It was that it was so needed.
And today, I brushed that need again.
And the wonder of wonders happened again as it did on my nights nursing the Indians. They gave me so much. They did it again today.
SometimesI wish I could start life over. I would make different career choices. Less education and more patients.
But, alas, I shouldn't be acting like what I did had no meaning. It did. It's just that in my years of working there was no one as engaged in returning energy to me as my Indians. God bless them. Each and every one. And my church can count on me to deliver whatever is needed to be delivered to the Indians of our nearby Reservations.
Only next time I will remember to take baskets for the skinny Rez dogs too. :)
Thanks for sharing my day with me. This Holy Day where I was blessed by the Pimas, and reminded what caring, sharing, and giving is about.
And it isn't my caring, and sharing, and giving that I am talking about. Oh no. Not mine.
It is the gentle Akimel O'odam's (Pima's).
Blessings!