Returning home from Texas, I enjoyed my drive. I passed through the Choctaw Nation. The music in my car that day was that of Native Americans. I enjoy this, but my children fear I have gone "new age" when they find it in the cd player. They do not connect it as I do. It does not have the same meaning for them.

Grassy sprawls chased up, out of the valley to forested rims above. The treelines traced camel back peaks down the horizon as far as my eye could see. Rigid rock formations jutted from the earth on high, magnified by the azure sky. I was taken back to my youth (no, not when the cowboys and Indians fought) where the delight of the days of the Indian were my dream.

My father had grown up near the Wisconsin Dells and we would return to that place where I would get to see Native American ceremonies. I dreamed of being clad in soft deerskin and dancing among them. I envied their children. They had such cool clothes to wear. Yet I knew nothing of their plight.

Magnificent, was the word that came to mind when I saw the Chief draped in eagles feathers, bear claws and painted with great care. How I wanted to be a brave that rode the hill country and lived life the simple ways I saw in him. Dreams of a child have no flaws.

I left the land of the Choctaw and entered the Creek Nation. I could see Indian scouts racing the plain beside. Pressing toward the bison that were sacred to them. It meant food and warmth and plenty.

These are pictures from my youth that mean a great deal to me. Every child has dreams of what they would like to be. My son dreamt of swordplay, and coming to the rescue of those in need. He would always arrive, just in time, and though he may give his life in the battle, he would set the captives free.

It did not matter, death in those days was but a moment or two. Then he'd return to the battle...he'd live on for another day.

Seeing life through the eyes of a child is something we lose along our way.

Landscapes hewn by the breath of God, and eroded by the leathery, wrinkled hands of time, wane in their importance. What was majestic has become the backdrop to progress. Valor and honor can be bought for the right price.

Recently, a young man sat across from me and told me that the Lord had asked him what he would do with his life if it was soon to be taken from him. He only hesitated for a moment at the precipice of martyrdom. He knew what he must do. What happened to him along the way was unimportant.

This is where honor and courage reside...in the hearts of the young. Somehow, the winds of days gone by have swept away our resolve.

I now reside somewhere between the Cherokee and Creek Nations. There flows no "Indian blood" through my veins, but waiting for the right moment rests the heart of a Lion...the Lion of Judah!


brent