Break Forth

By Lori Paul

Lori Paul hadn't asked for much in her fifty-something years except in prayer, "Break my heart for what breaks Yours." Bald eagles, random horseback riders, a Chief, and a marriage dissolving happened before the answer began. Blood cried out from the land and God had not forgotten. Thrust into a supernatural historic expose' and a nation being shaken along with herself, she walked in. Into the Pentagon, alleys and the land itself, He revealed darkness into light. The new day awakened.

 

If it were fiction it would be too much. Because it's true, you'll never be the same.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lori Paul
• Release date: Jan 11, 2024
• ISBN: 9781735915340

Book preview

1

NOT FORGOTTEN

I don’t care what you do. The last wisp of what had been dissipated into the air.

Silence.

It had taken all these years of living and dying, being held and held back; a lifetime that had been meant for this time. Now, at fifty-three years old, I pushed against an unlocked door.

Signs had pointed to this ending, but it caught me by surprise. What was beginning wasn’t going to be like anything that had ever been done before. No, never.

Eagles were pursuing me—real ones—mostly bald eagles but some were golden eagles. It was a plague. They flew over the top of my car, eyes looking into mine. They’d fly in front as if leading the way, hovering, until I got closer to the intersection and then they would turn like they knew where I was going. I didn’t like it. I didn’t like what I couldn’t understand.

Wow! Whoa! my friend shouted. The hair on the back of my neck stood up. An eagle was coming in fast and level with our faces, and then it ascended and landed on the branch above us. My friend worked for the Department of Natural Resources. Her shock legitimized the intensity of the situation.

Easter came, and if the Christmas lights were to come down, I would have to do it. High up on the ladder, I reached for the next section of bulbs. Mom, do you know an eagle is circling above our house?

Sighing impatiently, Yes.

Why is it doing that?

I don’t know! Coming down, I moved the ladder further along and shoved it hard into the bushes. No one ever thinks about climbing to the roof when they plant bushes. Slamming it into place.

It’s still there, my little boy said.

Ashamed of my anger over circumstances I had no control over and taking it out on bushes and my son, I gently replied, I know.

I hadn’t done anything with my brother for a long time and I wasn’t being told I couldn’t. I could take the boat out if I wanted. Hey, you wanna go boating?

Sure! I already had my first solo voyage after calling a girlfriend to talk me through how to get it started. It was exhilarating! Driving fast, an eagle swooped low and flew beside the boat. I barely glanced at it.

Lori! my brother shouted over the motor and wind. Did you know an eagle is flying next to us?

Yes! I replied, not letting up my speed and looking straight ahead.

It’s following us!

I know! They do that to me all the time.

He looked at me quickly and turned back to watch the bird. It’s still doing that! I’ve never seen an eagle do that! Why is it doing that? Eventually, it lifted high and slowed back from our speed.

It became a regular thing. "I just got eagled again."

As a little girl, I loved the outdoors, making things out of sticks and tree bark or building forts. Climbing trees, I would stay in them for hours. I even kept a journal while watching squirrels, keeping notes to decipher their language. I was convinced they communicated with the movement of their tails. The fact that I lived in a suburb did not cloud my imagination. I would step from the sidewalk onto dirt or grass or climb a tree and see the world from its strength and height. Sometimes the branch would gently sway on a breezy day. Coming down only when I had to, I would run my hand along the trunk. Patting it I’d say, I’ll be back. I’ll be back.

Childhood left me, and, eventually, I quit returning to the trees. The sound of the wind, leaves rustling, squirrels chattering, and rivers running were silenced in my ears. The volume of worldly voices lured me to believe who I should be. The voice came through music, movies, magazines, and television. These beliefs were not from the little girl I had been, but I believed the bait was real. Attractiveness was to attract. Popularity was a given because I liked to have fun. I stood out in ways that seemed to charm the boys and, in time, the men, as I became a young woman. It wasn’t charming. Some of my experiences with men in the darkness of night (fueled by substances) were so horrific I buried them deep inside. I’d seen the worst of myself and men. I hated myself and the lifestyle I chased looking for love. It was a mess and inside I had grown into a mess, living the lie. I loathed myself while wanting to redeem myself.

Headed toward someone else’s fame, someone else’s reputation where I felt different and could leave my tarnished name behind, I became the wife of a professional athlete. We had fallen in love. At that moment, everything seemed right. It was a world of instant glamour that crumbled into reality a few short years later. Its struggles were decades of truth and lies where love still tried to breathe through prayers and past betrayals.

I was not the only one who was lured to the fame that the world gave its attention to—its idols to worship. The desire to be known, accepted, and loved seemed to be in everyone I knew. To be loved for who you are as you are is a journey back—back to who you really are. I was so far away from my true self. Further than I knew. I did not realize how much the world had taken from me and replaced it with things that never lasted. Had it not been for faith, I wouldn’t have made it as far as I had. Faith was my saving grace and my only friend.

The eagles seemed to know something. They even showed up in my estranged husband’s dream. Lori, the whole backyard fence was lined with eagles. You were in the family room, looking at them through the window, and they were looking at you and communicating with you. You understood them. You were crying. You wanted to be with them. I listened, not saying a word. It was too much.

A Lesson in Nature

That spring an old friend saw me on social media and recognized that I lived near the river bluff trails. A restoration project was taking place to improve native plant life and remove intrusive growth. I’ll give you a tour.

I don’t have the right shoes for that kind of stuff, I said. I’d seen the ads of people who hiked and the gear they wore. My world perceptions were deeply taught through the images shown in media. Images meant to entice you to purchase things they were selling to be who they said you could be. The messages were never, just be as you are. Friendships were better with a cold bottle of soda, beer, or cocktail. Your grand mountain experiences were momentous with khaki clothing, bandana, climbing gear, and that perfectly tanned and muscular twenty- or thirty-something body. I was a minivan-driving soccer mom who wore heels whether I needed to or not. If I was in the garden digging, that was my space. My only outdoor space. It was fenced. I didn’t wear heels there very often, but when I did, they’d sink into the soil.

I’m not equipped to go hiking.

Put some shoes on and come down here, he said.

Shoes—I just needed shoes. I did have a pair of moccasins just like the ones my grandma used to wear. The sun was bright, and my heart raced against my hesitant steps as I walked across the mown lawn that I was so familiar with.

Stepping onto the unfamiliar dirt trail that began at the prairie grass, I recognized my old friend from all those years ago who was now suddenly there and overseeing the work site. This world of wild outdoors was separated by only eight houses.

I prayed he’d be ugly to take away any uncomfortable feelings I might have after all these years. My faith and relationship with God, my best friend, had grown deep in my life. I talked to Him about everything.

Hi! He shook my hand. Despite losing a front tooth that very morning due to his puppy bumping his face, he gave me a wide smile. I lost a tooth playing hockey years ago and had a new one made, and that’s what got hit. He was completely free of any embarrassment, was matter-of-fact, and wasted no time making purpose of the mission—to teach me about the land where I lived. I felt somewhat responsible for his missing tooth because of my prayer for ugliness. I felt weird and scared like I was doing something wrong. I had spent decades away from male friendships to keep the peace at home.

Pointing out the delicacies of a prairie flower, I wrote notes trying to keep up. He grabbed my notebook out of my hands and wrote in the scientific term and drew a quick sketch, then he handed it back to me and picked the flower and handed it over too. We walked to the wooded river bluff ledges. Stepping on uneven paths where water runoff had etched its trail, I tried to keep up while jotting notes. It had all been oak savannah, he said, now an ecologist and professor of natural history. There would be approximately twelve oaks on every acre of land.

Twelve?

My studies had recently led me to the frequent connections between physical creation and occurrences that mirrored the spiritual. The twelve oaks reminded me of the twelve disciples and the oaks of righteousness planted by the river whose roots could withstand the years of drought.

I knew the land we were on had been part of a family mission 180 years before. He showed me a camp where a small tribe had lived in varying seasons and the freshwater springs that gave them water in all seasons. Sometimes you will see arrowheads. I just leave them there. I fell silent and walked some more. There were trails, springs, forests, and rivers at the end of my street. A world untouched by me. I’d dreamed about it in the trees I climbed as a little girl.

Coming up to a large oak nearly 300 years old, he stopped, looking intently at the trunk and lifting his eyes to its canopy of branches. This tree knew the carrier pigeon and the bison and the people who lived beneath it. Out of those words came a sword, or was it an arrow? Something pierced my heart, opening a chasm as if death and life had taken place all at once.

When it was time to leave, I held the notebook tight to my chest with both arms wrapped around it. He smiled big, still unaffected by his missing tooth and seemingly content to have taught another student. He tried to teach me the biology of a frog thirty years earlier, but it hadn’t gone well (not even with the lucky penny he gave me before the test). The kindness remained and the teacher in him that held deep appreciation for all created things had only grown with all he had learned. I was grateful I had put my shoes on and for friendship that didn’t allow time to kill it.

It knew the people who lived beneath it.

The power of the words about the oak intensified. Three hundred years ago. Something inside of me was rumbling, about to erupt, or was it an opening—a chasm so vast only God knew? The significance was there, but I didn’t know what it was. It was significant with the mysterious and powerful hand of God.

Native Riders

Three years prior, driving down a busy road in my neighborhood that led to the freeway entrance I was headed toward, I gasped. Pulling over quickly and braking to a stop, I put on my flashers. Coming up the hill were about thirty people on horses in the middle of a suburban landscape of automobiles, houses, and freeways. The riders were Native American. One wore a headdress and others wore some regalia, while others were in jeans, boots, and t-shirts. A couple of the horses carried a man and woman as two were paired up on one horse.

Awestruck by the pure holiness of it, I remained stopped at the side of the road. Other cars drove past me, and some honked and waved at the riders. Rolling down my window and stretching out my hand, I prayed God’s blessings over them as they rode up the hill toward me. The man leading wore a headdress. When he got near, he looked me in the eyes and nodded. I nodded back, slowly, sovereignly, three head nods while my prayers were extended in blessing for each of the people and horses as they passed.

I did my errands and drove back to find them. I had a feeling about where they may have ridden, and I found them. I pulled ahead of them into the gas station and parked. Running to the sidewalk, I sat down and waited for them to ride by. The sound of the horses’ hooves grew as I watched. I disappeared into the sound, the smell of horses and leather, and the freedom that seemed to float with them in front of me.

I searched for news or any reports on what I was seeing. I found a post that explained the riders had been on a prayer ride. They were riding back to the fort along the old trail that led from Fort Snelling to Mankato. I learned that Old Shakopee Road was more than its name. Shakopee had been a chief. The four-lane busy road was once part of the trail to the fort. Mankato was where thirty-eight Dakota men had been hanged in the United States’ largest mass execution. Two more Dakota were hanged at Fort Snelling. A commemoration ride for the upcoming 150 th anniversary of the mass hanging was coming in December.

My breath caught in my throat. The riders would be riding and praying under the mantra Forgive everyone everything. I didn’t know anything about the hanging until I saw the riders and did my research. Grief came upon me in a cloud of information I’d never known. I was confused and pained by what I had learned. Grappling with what I’d seen and read, there was something else. Something else more powerful was coming.

I wondered why I had seen them when I was on the side of the cemetery. Why would I see them there of all places? My thoughts continued blending the physical with the spiritual. Forgiveness! Forgiveness brought life after death. Resurrection.

The Native people would rise again. I saw them coming up the hill. I secretly carried the prayers for this, believing with all my heart the Native people were rising, and the move coming was a holy one. I bottled it for three years. Hearing the words about the oak tree from my friend broke something open. I prayed that weekend. A lot.

Lord, Lord, what is it? What are you saying?

I searched for clues. I went to the town history museum. It was laden with pioneer artifacts, the wooden dusty floor creaked beneath my feet as I made my way to the back corner where Native American history was kept. It was a small corner. There was a canoe made from a dug-out log, arrowheads, tools, some clothing, moccasins, and something I didn’t recognize until I learned about it later. It was a cradleboard that Native babies were carried in on their mothers’ backs. Babies. Mothers. My ignorance of the fullness of life of those who had once lived where I was now living gouged my conscience. People I hadn’t known. People.

It had only been three days since hearing the words about the oak. Driving alone on my way to church, I pleaded with God. Two eagles flew toward the top of a cloud that was shaped like a mountain. Pleading harder, Lord, what is this? What is happening? What does this all mean?

Then I heard Him, As this nation has been crying out for repentance, it goes back to the land and the blood that was shed on it—your brothers and sisters.

My mind burst open. The eyes and ears of my heart opened. Thoughts raced. The nation had been crying out for repentance up the wrong trees. It wasn’t the issues of today, the flimsy saplings. It went back to the ancient oaks. The ones planted by God (Isaiah 61:3). Repentance for this nation goes back to the beginning. Back to the taking and atrocities on land. Back to the people. Back to how this nation grew itself against the original design of His heart.

God had not forgotten! I pulled into the church parking lot and sat. I couldn’t bring myself to go in. They don’t know. They haven’t heard me talk this strongly about my conversations with God. They wouldn’t understand. It’s 2015; it’s been so long.

They have never seen this place of repentance—His heart that has not forgotten His love for His people and their land. Yet, I wanted to worship and pray. I needed His closeness, His comfort, His forgiveness. I made my way inside. The service had started, so I could avoid being greeted. I thought my God encounter must be written all over my face, and they’d see it, but I couldn’t explain it.

Climbing the dark stairway to the balcony where the choir used to sit, I sat overlooking the sanctuary. The dimly lit space helped me secretly hold on to what I had just been given. In the dark, I was able to hide my face and eyes so I wouldn’t expose what I had seen—something bigger than I had ever known.

In quiet prayer came a sudden memory. I was a ten-year-old girl on my school field trip with my class. We rode a bus to a cemetery after learning about the settlers. Stepping down from a lively and noisy bus of children, with steps too steep for ten-year-old legs, I grabbed the rail and stepped onto the grass. Standing among other children, I read the tombstone of another ten-year-old girl. The girl’s name, Susan, was etched into the limestone marker. When I looked at the tombstone, it was as if I was the only child there—alone in a moment that suddenly returned with clarity as I sat in the balcony. It had come back in an instant.

He was speaking to the nation! I remembered little Susan, a Native American girl who had been murdered. As the church service ended, I realized I hadn’t listened to any of the pastor’s message. I was someplace else, trying to take hold of something to stop the shaking inside of me. The congregation was singing the last song before the final prayer. Rushing down the dark stairway before anyone saw me, I made my way to the exit and pushed open the door. My destination was the cemetery to find little Susan’s grave, relying on my memory from forty-three years ago to where I believed she was buried.

Gravel crackling beneath the tires, I pulled up to where I thought she was buried. With shaky steps, as if I had never walked before, I only needed to take a few. There she was—little Susan. I’d driven right to her grave. Forty-three years of hidden memory, and I was back. A pair of sterling silver earrings in a Native design with turquoise threads was set at the base. The threads had faded in some areas, but the gift wasn’t old. It had been placed there recently. There was a bunny made from cement placed beside the limestone marker as if snuggling in.

Beneath Susan’s name was etched Christianized Dakota Girl Murdered by the Ojibwa Indians, June 12, 1856. She had been adopted by Mrs. A. M. Whalen, and the story was told by non-Native storytellers. ¹

Christianized, I scowled. In my heart, I knew Christ to not be one of force but of love, and it was up to each one of us if we believed. Christianized sounded like a word that spoke about the doing of man and not the doing of Christ.

My eyes were seeing differently. No one taught me this; it was a teaching that had suddenly risen in my spirit. The fear I had been taught as a little girl for the Ojibwa who murdered a child living in a white home was replaced with: There’s something more. This isn’t the whole story.

I knew there was a conflict between Dakota and Ojibwa. Conflict between Dakota and white, Ojibwa and white, those who meant evil, and those who meant good. I was in the same cemetery where I had pulled over alongside the road three years before when the Dakota riders rode up the hill.

Returning home, my daughter was in the living room. I sat down, spilling out what little I knew. I have to write about this! She replied, You can’t write about them without them. I sank back into my chair and knew she was right—profoundly right. How would it ever happen?

2

WALKING BY SPIRIT

I’m not like a lot of traditional believers of Jesus Christ. I learned to live by His Spirit, to listen, and I know His power. The years of isolation in an often-painful marriage led me to a deeper relationship and faith in God. I hadn’t been a Bible reader, not until the Spirit led me there. Before that, I would have conversations with God through prayers and learning to listen and watch. I’d cry out to Him in anger and pain that was raw and truthful. Eventually, I’d reach the place of peace in His presence. I didn’t just believe in God. I was learning to know Him.

When the desire came to read the Bible, really read it, I opened to the Psalms—right in the middle. Reading the words David spoke to God and God’s response, I was startled and delighted. God, we did this! David would rant or beg or ask, and you’d reach his heart, and he would praise you. Learning how to walk in His Spirit by learning how to walk this life with Him in the ups and downs has almost become second nature to me. God is my most constant companion. The door was unlocking.

Distance Between Cultures

I couldn’t talk about them without them.

Historic reenactments took place at the Missionary House. I knew that much. Walking inside the old brick building, a slim man stood dressed in clothing styled from the 1800s. He and I were the only two in the house. Seeing a bright, white light all over him, I smiled.

You know the Lord, don’t you? I said confidently knowing what his response would be. He straightened, eyes wide with a smile he couldn’t stop, Well, yes! Yes, I do! I took this job because I wanted to represent the man who was a missionary. I had learned to recognize the light on those whom God wanted me to talk to. It was a secret and a gift I hadn’t told anyone about.

Gideon Pond, the missionary he was portraying, was different from most other missionaries. He learned their language. He wrote their words into an alphabet and taught the Dakota how to read and write their own language. He helped them write their own newspaper.

Early in his arrival, he lived near Bde Maka Ska (formerly named Lake Calhoun), a lake that is part of the Minneapolis city lakes chain. Peacefully, Cloud Man, a Mdewakanton leader, and his tribe were attempting to farm near the Ponds, and they grew their friendship. Ojibwes began to push further south, which created animosity with the Dakota. Cloud Man took the Pond family with him to their winter camp along the river, keeping them safe. This was the river bluff where Gideon Pond built his house beside Cloud Man’s camp. There were many camps of Dakota along the riverbanks on both sides. ¹ This was where I was shown the oak.

Do you know any Dakota who are filled with the Holy Spirit that would talk with me? I asked. He smiled again and said yes, and walked to an old oak dresser that was original to the home. Opening a drawer, he picked out a business card and wrote the man’s name, email, and phone number. Thank you! Bless you! I took the card and didn’t stay any longer, hurrying home.

Opening my computer, I wrote to the man on the card and briefly explained what had happened and why I hoped to talk to him. That night, the phone rang, and it was him—Jason. He understood my message about how things led to him, and, more importantly, he believed it.

Jason asked about my family and shared about his. He told me about a ministry he was working on, and he shared his faith. He began to talk about being Native and the difficulties he faced. As Jason spoke, something supernatural happened. It was like I was suddenly in a dark space, almost like outer space. It was vast and dark. I could hear his voice, but it grew quieter, fading as he spoke. Growing muddled with distance, I could not understand anything he was saying.

It was as if the great space between us was the distance between the cultures we had each been raised in. They were so far apart and dark. I prayed quietly and hopelessly, Only you can bring this together, Lord. Suddenly, it ended like a swift rush back to hearing the words Jason was saying. We agreed to meet soon. Connecting with Jason, a Native person, held additional significance. It was Pentecost Sunday—the day remembered fifty days after Christ’s resurrection when the Holy Spirit came rushing in like a mighty wind, filling the people with power who had been waiting before beginning their mission to make disciples of all the nations (Acts 2).

A Gift

Pulling into the coffee shop where we were meeting, my favorite CD played in my car.

Give it to him.

But Lord, it’s my favorite one! It’s inspiring; I worship with it. I love it. It’s my favorite! Making excuses, I said, Lord, I can’t give it to him like this! I don’t even have the case for it anymore.

Look in the glove box.

I opened the glove box, and there was the case right on top. The name of the album was Awaken Love. Unaware of the Native culture of gift giving and honor, God knew it would speak to Jason because He knew Native protocol. Give it to him, I heard again.

I slowly walked to the coffee shop, peering in the windows to see if I could spot Jason before actually seeing him face to face. Meeting him was scary. I had no Native American friends. We saw each other at the same time; he was already seated. I sat down and watched him carefully remove the paper from his straw for his iced tea, placing the paper in the shape of a cross next to his glass. He didn’t say anything about it.

Sliding the CD to him across the table, I said, Here, it’s a gift for you. He gasped and said, Today, love was on my mind, running his finger over the title. Let’s pray. He began thanking God for the air we breathe, the grass, the flowers, the trees, the birds that sing, the animals, and the water. I’d never heard anyone thank God like that. Jason called him Father and Creator. I shared that same gratitude to my core. I knew something was happening. He asked me to help him develop his ministry. I didn’t know anything about doing such a thing, but I said yes. I knew I was to do it like I was supposed to give the CD.

Meetings happened swiftly. I met numerous people, Dakota mostly. All had stories of miraculous healing, deliverance, and lives delivered from the deepest places of despair. Many had lived on reservations at one time, and some would be returning to them.

Empowered

Hearing things I’d never heard before, at times it was more than I could bear. Abandonment, neglect, abuse, substance addiction, pedophilia, murder, abducted children, boarding school abuse, rapes, suicides, prison, freezing to death, hunger, homelessness, and runaways. Stories of real life being told by people sitting with me. Their stories weren’t in news articles or on the television. These were the lives