One couple’s story of reconciliation, healing, and heartbreak.
In October of 2011, my husband Justin and I visited Haskell Indian Nations University in Lawrence, Kansas, for the first time. Just beyond the school grounds, hidden behind a modern sewage tank, lies a place few speak of: the cemetery from the original Haskell Indian Boarding School that once operated on that land. It is truly sacred ground that tells the story of tragedy, filled with silent witnesses to an era of forced assimilation and generational trauma via kidnapping and abuse. We knew that the first thing we wanted to do was to walk through the cemetery and say each name out loud, to honor the memory of the children who were buried there, and to pray over the land.
We weren’t alone that day. We were honored to be joined by Mika’el and Sylvia, a courageous White Mountain Apache couple who had agreed to meet us there. This beautiful couple were not strangers to pain and suffering. They both grew up on the Rez and had seen their fair share of heartbreak. Sylvia, a recovering alcoholic, and her husband Mike were now serving Jesus with all of their hearts on the campus of Haskell Indian Nations University. Together, they led on-campus bible studies and faithfully discipled many Native students over the course of several years.
Together, we came to pray over the graves of the children buried there, for their families all these years later, and for reconciliation between nations. As we stood among the weathered headstones, we prayed for healing. We asked for forgiveness on behalf of the tribal nations whose children had been taken. Mika’el and Sylvia extended forgiveness on behalf of our ancestors who may have perpetrated this atrocity or were possibly complicit. They prayed in the four directions in their Apache language, performing ceremony in honor of their ancestors. We shared communion and worshiped Jesus together, standing in a place of unity as we interceded over the brokenness of history.
“…to Jesus the mediator of a new covenant, and to the sprinkled blood that speaks a better word than the blood of Abel.” (Hebrews 12:24)
I was walking through the cemetery when one headstone took my breath away. It belonged to a Yuki boy from Round Valley in Northern California. This child had been taken over a thousand miles from his family, his culture, and his land. He died at just 18 years old. So many like him were lost to disease, starvation, abuse, and the silent grief of being stripped of their identity and away from their families. The reality hit me hard: how far they were taken, and how many never made it home.
After we finished praying together, Mika’el and Sylvia invited us to their house. We shared Indian tacos and stories, met a couple of their boys, and that night we attended the Haskell Pow Wow together with our mutual friend, Chasity Roanhorse. They introduced us to their friends and welcomed us into their world. That day planted the seeds of deep friendships that would last many years.
Over time, I became an intercessor for their family, especially their sons, whom they called their “arrows.” Mike and Sylvia became such dear friends, always championing us in our ministry and encouraging us to never give up. We prayed for them and they prayed for us. Mika’el later made his way to Modoc County in Northern California, where he also had ancestral roots. It was an honor to connect him with Modoc/Klamath tribal leaders and he was overwhelmed with joy several months later when he was presented with a Modoc tribal flag by the tribal chair, a moment of deep recognition and belonging.
But life has its tragedies, and in 2021, just 10 years after we had first met, Mika’el lost a battle to pancreatic cancer. Only one month later, Sylvia, overwhelmed by grief, trauma, and a lifelong struggle with depression and addiction, took her own life. These are the heartbreaking realities of serving in Native communities. You pray for and sow into lifelong relationships, for healing, for hope. But too often, trauma reclaims what love has begun to mend. I still pray every day for the adult children Mika’el and Sylvia left behind.
Their story, their courage, their faith, their pain, lives on in our hearts. It reminds us of the depth of love that’s required when we walk into these places of historical trauma, of how essential trauma-informed care, spiritual support, and practical resources are for Native families who have lived through generations of pain. This story is not one of despair, but of truthful storytelling about two warriors who knew how to love well, and practiced strength and resilience in spite of traumatic circumstances. They left a legacy on that campus and in the hearts of all who knew them, especially their arrows, of showing up for the long, hard work of reconciliation, even when the story does not end as we hoped. Mika’el and Sylvia were more than friends, they were our brother and sister, faithful warriors, and worshipers of their King. Their legacy calls us all to deeper compassion and to never stop pursuing healing for the individuals God puts in our lives, and for the nations.
