In the middle of a healing conference on the Rosebud Indian Reservation, a young Native American died of acute alcoholism. Unfortunately, it is not an unusual occurrence on Indian reservations to die of alcoholism. I was working with Matt and Dennis Linn who were in training on the reservation. We were invited to the wake that was to be held later that evening. The Linns told me what to do when we got to the tribal hall.
"When we go into the tribal hall tonight, the man will be in a casket in the front of the room with all of his grieving family around him, and nobody will be talking. The Indian people will be there. Go in, don't say a word, take the hand of each of the grieving relatives, shake it once, and sit down with the rest of the people who are there."
We sat there in silence with the family. The Native Americans sat there all night long with that family, not saying a word. Your presence speaks so much louder than anything you could say. Sometimes we talk too much, rather than remembering to "be still and know that I am God".
Dark and cold we may be, but this Is no winter now: the frozen misery Of centuries breaks, cracks, begins to move: The thunder is the thundering of the floes, The thaw, the flood, the upstart spring. Thank God our time is now when wrong Comes up to face us everywhere, Never to leave us til we take The longest stride of soul we ever took. Affairs are now soul-size. The enterprise Is exploration into God.
~ from "A Sleep of Prisoners" in SELECTED PLAYS by Christopher Fry