REAL SPIRITUALITY 
True to self.  Real with God.

 

Native Prophecy

 

Shortly after witnessing the pendulum shift in time on Grandfather's clock to us here on earth, an opportunity came up for me to go to a Pow Wow at the University of Michigan. I was more than happy to go as a chaperone and help my daughter and her friend with their elementary classes. Little did I realize then in 1995 what was about to unfold to me personally when lightheartedly flowing in the Spirit with the beat of the drum while helping the kids settle in.

 

What I did know was that my dad was Scott-Irish, but with a supposed blemish. Somewhere along down the line a great-grandfather married the daughter of a tribal chief. Sioux, Cherokee, Cheyenne, I wasn't sure. It was a family secret. One that was whispered as bringing shame to the Andrews name, which always baffled me. It was said they were a peaceful tribe and not one of war, that the natives were friendly. Needless to say, I wasn't raised on the red path, the Red Road. Neither was I familiar with terms like shaman and the Path of the Feather until more recently.

 

Once seated myself, the sound of that drum began to beat louder and louder. Not in my immediate surroundings, but rather from the depths of my heart, permeating and pulsating its way through every cell of my being, flowing through my every vein, until the beating of this drum was all I heard. Once reaching a synchronized peak of oneness in heart, spirit, and soul, a spiritual curtain unveiled before me to see backwards into the plane of time and watched warrior spirits from the past running in an open field.

 

The day was sunny and bright, the wheat tall, but the men, the women, the children ... they all ran desperately for their lives, in full run to get away from their oppressors-white men sitting on their high horses, unjustly ruling over the fate of others, who charged ruthlessly, so needlessly, to massacre them all in the name of God, in the name of Love. Their innocent blood cried out from the open fields. It was in this beating moment of drummed horror that I heard their hearts' desperate cries for freedom, cries in oneness with my own when God our Creator, Father of spirits, audibly told me, "My people will rise again in a way most won't expect or see coming at all."  I knew enough then, if only in part, that it had everything to do with real spirituality.

 

Contrary to those of Native birth and upbringing, I was born different, born without a right hand to have experienced the many aspects of oppression most my life. People in general don't take too kindly to different, physically or spiritually. The general consensus among the medical profession during the 1950's thought it best to put me away in an institution for life as a means of providing for my ‘special' needs. Certain religious relatives quickly agreed as a means of hiding the family shame, of hiding God's punishment apparently marked on me for lack of one hand. My dad however refused to soon become my closest childhood friend. He was my dear "comrade in arms" who taught me to think like a man just as God clearly told me he would when I was five-raised to stand strong in the true values of family and friendship.

 

In short, nine of my childhood years, from kindergarten through 8th grade were constantly badgered everyday by the cruel mockery and physical attacks from others so ignorant and blind to my spiritual wholeness. Everyday were prayers in secret, Father, forgive them, they know not what they do. Out-of-body experiences became a nightly norm by the time I was eight years old after faced with the fear of death to me as a child. With those experiences was the audible instruction to "watch and listen" as was first told when three, to carefully measure everything out with the divinely given guidelines of Love: the Ten Commandments received wholeheartedly as a tutor for one's faith. My first five years were primarily spent and remembered with my godparents, Italian Catholics who openly loved me in preparation for the hard years ahead.

 

To say the least, pow wows in general were avoided like the plague after this one incident. The hearts' desperate cries for freedom haunted me with the need to put all that oppression to rest, to lay everything down for Christ's sake while relating my every need with the needs of His people. It wasn't until a few years ago that this was the only beating of the drum I knew. The Native American Band named Brule & Airo came to perform at the Indian Market here in Denver and was led by the Holy Spirit to go, as I was once again in January of 2007. The hearts' song I hear from their drum beats in celebration. We are one. We are all related. I waited by the Spirit's lead for the crowd to disperse after their performance and went to their table to buy a CD--Silent Star Night, a culmination of Christmas Songs in both the white and red cultures.

 

The woman in charge of money transactions asked if I wanted her to open the case and quickly told her no, politely adding that no one was to open it, not even me, until it was safely @home. With my new treasured CD in hand, an angel thumped me right on the forehead and so I stopped to reconsider her offer to then realize Paul, Nicole, and Shane were sitting just a few feet away to autograph it. Knowing not to disregard the importance of little things, I begrudgingly surrendered my new treasure. It must have been obvious since they all assured me that it wouldn't be taken out of its case, let alone get scratched. With three out of four autographs out of the way, Paul handed my CD back with case still opened and said to give it to Moses. That he was standing right behind me. Maybe it was the angelic thump on the head, but when I turned around I was speechless. 

What an angel he was to so sweetly take me unawares. This wasn't by chance. Moses is the drummer.

He ever so swiftly took that CD right out of my hand with his one to then take and warmly hold my hand with his other. We stood face to face on equal footing for moments. He looked genuinely, searchingly in my eyes with those of a real warrior spirit. There were no words for what all stirred and connected within my heart. What I knew and understood with my head was that it's been years since I've sensed the anointed strength of a man like this. Without any shame, without any remorse, I personally thanked him several times over for who he is, for what he does, for where he stands. I also let him know how much I've missed him, as well as the others.

 

My heart was drawn to wait, to "watch and listen" to their next performance. Surprised, but with my undivided attention, Paul explained his reasons for composing Silent Star Night. It's a reflected culmination from his own life to pass onto others. He was adopted and raised by a white family to then discover his Lakota heritage later in years. Moses then graciously explained how it's Lakota tradition for the young to honor their elders, not for the elders to honor their young. With a given dedication, they played Grandmother's Prayer. 

 

Whether they knowingly did that on purpose or not for me personally, their spirits ring true. Their drum beats in oneness with my heart, which in turn, beats in oneness with our Father's.  My own prayers as a grandmother have been for Him to embrace others with the warmth of His love, to melt the cold-hearted mountains in the land of His people. He showed me one mountain in particular recently that was once icy and snow covered now covered with plush greenery and young, tender shoots-trees of righteousness growing their roots deeper still. My granddaughter who was with me and also met Moses that day, sadly commented later as the beat of their drum played on the stereo how she wish she was Indian. Unlike my parents, my mother is English, I smiled and openly told her, "You are, if only in part. It flows through your veins." And so another cycle begins.

 

Someone once told me in passing that some of the Native American Tribes like the Lakota, Cheyenne, and others are actually descendants from the 10 ‘lost' tribes of Israel. While I know that to be true in my heart, I know in my head that being ‘found' isn't always in ways most think it should be. I've yet to know the Father to not have more than just a surprise or two up His sleeve. It surprised me to learn when putting aside certain errors with trained discernment how a shaman's life actually describes my own, if only in part when considering a prophet was once called a seer was once called a shaman.

 

The medicine wheel that was divinely given me and am more familiar with is the starry wheel of the zodiac with the prophetic cross in the middle as it relates to the twelve tribes of Israel, the commonwealth of Israel as was meant and designed for the healing of all nations. The true and pure spirit of prophecy is always, always in testimony of Jesus who well advised us how we will know each other by our fruit, by the Father's divine inner workmanship within us through Jesus by the Holy Spirit. The Son of Righteousness has come to rise up through the hearts of His people with healing in His wings. This is what I saw. This is what I know beyond any doubt and uncertainty in ways that went unnoticed. Spiritual eyes and ears once closed have been opened to perceive and understand, which can be confusing in itself for those once blind and deaf. At the same time, scales to ancient eyes are also being washed away as was designed and meant to see more clearly to help us all stay on course in light of forthcoming changes.

 

We as a people, as a collective whole, are a backwards race in need of going forward with so much more to look forward to when keeping Love Himself our aim. The heart within the corporate spirit itself experienced a global shift toward healing during 2007, but with the need to collectively shift in consciousness from Gemini to Capricorn, from the pathway of faith to the pathway of glory for the days ahead, for a better understanding to the year 2012. May the Great Spirit be with you in the peace of His light.