Snow laps up against the white clapboard side of St. Rose's church like a wave, it's powdery crest settling waist-high like a foothill. The Gothic arch of the twelve foot window safely above betrays itself simplicity--the glass is clear and frosted, but not stained, a limp strand of tinsel and ornaments floating from the top; the flaking weathered paint matches the snow beneath it. Here on the plain nature is adorned, not the churches. But the light comes from within, as they say, and as the harsh winter sun sets in Soldier Creek over the South Dakota horizon the pale golden light of the sanctuary is all that illumines the face of Myrtis Walking Eagle. He is seated by the window, his elbow resting on the sill, listening to the sermon but with the familiar air of teenage detachment. His parents cannot be seen--he could just as well be a runaway alone on Christmas Eve as he could be a sibling of seven. Or perhaps he is glad to be here as a one hour respite from his home on the reservation. His face is polite but stoic, his gaze far away. His ancestors were here before the Christians ever came to this land. He thinks about them, how they would receive this message of God made man in a child from foreign missionaries, this foreign religion which is all he has ever known.
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