Reflections on my first trip to Rosebud

Part of going  to Rosebud is the car ride, all 16 hours of it. 

The ride through Nebraska and into South Dakota was a reminder 

that the Midwest is vast and beautiful. 

There are rolling hills with long stretches of flat, straight, 

two lane highways dotted with small towns that have been forgotten or never known. 

The skies are open, at times almost overwhelming in scope. 

Storms can be seen many miles away 

while flashes of lightening brighten foreboding clouds.

Due to weeks and weeks of rain, pastures were green and lush for grazing 

but fields were unplowed and no new growth was seen. 

It may be a doubly difficult year for farmers, 

between tariffs and Mother Nature. 

Standing water in fields, fences underwater, and road closures 

were obvious signs of the flooding. 

I wondered to myself what silent signs we could not see; 

debt, foreclosures, cancelled plans, depression 

or drastic change in lifestyles and hope of survival.

Arriving at Rosebud Reservation is rather uneventful, 

no big signs announcing “you are here” in Lakota, 

no tall Indian statues or gates to stop us asking for ID as we enter their sovereign land.

But, as the drive continues onto the town of Mission, where we will be staying, 

I start to notice things. 

I see rather  small homes with multiple cars in driveways, 

some obviously not in running condition, 

multicolored roofs from repairs, some with boarded windows, 

large and small pieces of trash piled outside near the homes 

and yards that had not seen a lawn mower in awhile. 

As somewhat of a scrubby Dutch, I thought, 

why don’t they just clean up the crap? 

These were just hints of the poverty I was to see and hear about in the week to come. 

I had to realize my expectations cannot be be theirs. 

Their access to needed agencies and funding is often limited. 

But with those negative signs, 

I also saw signs of joy and hope in the  children playing on swing sets, 

fresh laundry hanging outside drying in the sunshine and wind 

and cattle grazing in fields along the highway.

My first impression of the town of Mission was “oh my”. 

The streets were FULL of potholes, some businesses were closed and shuttered, 

no restaurants to speak of, lots overgrown with weeds and overflowing trash receptacles.  There were no industrial courts, no tall office buildings or signs of growth. 

It reminded me of so many small towns that lack investors to provide jobs, 

of failed businesses due to unseen issues, lack of infrastructure 

or being so far away from jobs that the commute is impossible to make.

Arriving at “the dorm” I was impressed at its size, 

surprised it was surrounded by land and not in the middle of town, 

that it had a chapel on the premises, 

a baseball diamond with the outfield in dire needing of mowing 

and more buildings on site. 

The inside of the building left me wanting for more. 

The rooms are small with two bunk beds ( bring your own bedding) 

and my room lacked a mirror and a lamp. 

Although initially annoying, the  lack of amenities are soon forgotten 

as one is so tired at the end of the day that sleep is the great pacifier. 

As the group was small, we each had our own room . 

I cannot imagine sharing the room with three more travelers 

as I tend to search out privacy.

One time. I laughed to myself, must missionaries suffer for the cause 

or was it a tiny bit of white privilege? 

I was, as I think all of us were, dismayed at the sight of the bathrooms, 

sinks that barely drained, toilets that had not been cleaned but the showers had hot water. The kitchen table and refrigerator were full of food and dry goods from the previous group. 

My impression was someone was clueless or careless 

in how to prep for the incoming group. 

I knew we could do better, and. before we left, we did.

My first view of Rev. Dr Lauren Stanley was at the service the morning after our arrival. 

She is a physical presence; loud voiced, short haircut and constant motion, even while

performing the service in a boot from a torn ACL. 

But her physicality pales in comparison with her obvious love of the congregation and her preaching. 

It was the celebration of the Ascension and her message 

pushed me into my seat and left me wide eyed. 

The message left no doubt that Jesus left us because He trusted us to do his work 

not only in Rosebud but wherever we go. 

During the week it became clear that Rev. Stanley 

knows, loves and helps the people on the reservation 

whether they attend one of the 7/8 churches she covers or not. 

She works tirelessly to help them but is not an easy pushover. 

It is clear she is tired, tired from the pain of a torn ACL, 

tired from seeing to multiple needs everyday, 

tired from too little time off, 

tired from dealing with continuous crisis. 

I do not know how she copes, maybe  with a sense of humor, 

her love for the people of the reservation 

or maybe God gives her the strength she needs. 

She employs them when she can but keeps tabs on who shows up or not. 

During the summer months she has groups coming in constantly to help 

but makes sure they know the theological reason behind their service.

I found that interesting and a bit daunting to emulate. 

But I also sensed rage, 

rage against a system that has lied to the Indian people’s for over a century. 

Rage against a system that is ignorant, racist 

and uncaring for the needs of the original Americans. 

Rage against the ignorance of why the Lakota stay on their land 

in order to keep their culture alive. 

In the first two or three days there 

I came up with all kinds of solutions to help the tribes to be more prosperous 

and lead fuller, happier lives. Idiot. 

I was gently informed that practically everyone who comes on the Mission trip

 has the same reaction and same answers. 

Humbled. I was ever so gently reminded 

that we do not go to Rosebud to solve their issues 

but to do what we are instructed. 

And, by making the trip to Rosebud and doing the instructed work 

we show them love. 

We, hopefully, can listen to their stories of abuse, poverty, boredom, 

drug use, unintended pregnancies and hopes without prejudice, 

unasked for advice or pity. 

I believe by listening 

we love them for whom they are, right now. 

I had a 17 year old girl share her sense of boredom. 

There is no park, no public library, no functioning swimming pool, 

nowhere for teens to hang out. 

She shared the abuse she suffered from a parent, 

the safety she felt in living with her grandmother 

and her need to leave when she turned 18. 

She also wondered out loud why would we want to travel to Rosebud a

nd what the outside world thought of Indians. 

Rev. Lauren reminded me she was a teenager with all the drama of same, 

but I believe there was also truth in our conversation. 

It left me sad, feeling ill prepared to answer her,

 then realizing it was not about me.

Yes, the poverty and the consequences of it can be overwhelming, 

as in any society, but it is also dimmed by seeing the love of family, children, 

of community and self in recovery from demons in their past. 

Not everyone is a success story but the love and work continues.

I will remember the many small, white churches with red doors, 

the skies full of rolling storms, 

the sunrises that blind you with beauty, 

the acceptance of the people, 

the shared stories, sad and happy,  

the work, the fun, the beauty of the land, 

being OK with work undone as someone else will be there next week to finish it, 

the feeling of not doing enough, 

the chapel meetings and times of reflection. 

I will especially remember Mother Lauren as a driving force, 

a missionary with a vision, a woman of God.

Oh yes, I will return.

Peggy Schroeder