“We Are Singing for Our Lives: Reflections from Pine Ridge”

On the Pine Ridge Reservation, something powerful is unfolding. Elders, once sent to distant care facilities far from the land of their people, are now being welcomed back home. A great-grandmother watches the young Lakota dancers move to the heartbeat of the drum. Her voice, filled with pride, echoes: “He’s my great grandson.”

In this sacred moment—of dance, family, and legacy—tradition breathes again.

A Mirror to Our Own Loss

While witnessing these efforts to restore connection for the Lakota people, I was struck by an uncomfortable truth: in the process of attempting to erase Indigenous traditions, we—the white people—have also lost our own.

The richness of our ancestors’ cultures, their songs, rituals, and ways of being, have faded from our daily lives. They still live in us, etched into our spirits, waiting to be remembered.

Have we not, too, become strangers to our own roots?

Wounded Knee: A Gentle, Angry People
Standing at Wounded Knee—an American holocaust site—I watched Lakota men care for the graves of their ancestors. A sacred act of remembrance. A quiet defiance.

As I laid down tobacco at Chief Big Foot’s grave, the tune “We Are Singing for Our Lives” played in my heart.

We are a gentle, loving people,
and we are singing, singing for our lives.

These words took on new meaning. They became a prayer. A protest. A promise.

We are a people—of many colors, orientations, and ages—fighting to remember. To return. To reclaim what was lost or stolen. To keep it alive for the seventh generation.

Coffee, Presence, and the Ministry of Moments
Each morning on the reservation, I handed out hot cups of coffee. And in those simple exchanges, I felt it—the Presence. A Holy Eucharist moment. Great Spirit. Christ. A sacred pause shared between hands and hearts.

Ministry is often seen as grand acts or tireless service. But maybe it’s also this: standing still, listening deeply, being fully present in a fleeting moment of connection.

I walked alongside the people of Pine Ridge. Not for them, not above them, but with them. And in that walking, I began to ask deeper questions.

The Questions That Stay With Us

What is Christ’s presence, truly? How do we carry it in the hardest, messiest parts of life? How do we remain in Oneness when the path feels broken or unclear?

I don’t have the answers yet. But I’m sitting with the questions—in prayer, in reflection, in hope.

And maybe that is the beginning of healing, too.

By Dianne M. Heapy

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