Zero MPH

Recently I read a book written by Marjorie S. May, entitled The Highly Adaptable Gospel; A Journey Through the Life of H. Baxter Liebler. The book relates the path that took Father Liebler, the founder of St. Christopher’s Mission in Bluff, from his comfortable home in Connecticut to the wilds of the Navajo Nation’s Utah Strip. On several occasions Barry and I have mentioned Father Liebler and the mission in our writings. That is generally because the man and his mission had a significant impact on our young lives.

The reality undoubtedly is that we were too young to accurately gauge his influence. Looking back, however, I can clearly see how the dynamic atmosphere at the mission in the 1960’s impacted me then and affects me even now. We attended kindergarten, were attended to at the clinic, went to church and played in the red dirt of the mission ground all the time feeling safe and secure.

Although the book paints a positive picture of Father Liebler and his love for the Navajo people, the author cannot avoid noting that the priest has been criticized for his “Anglo condescension toward the Indian.” The author also notes that in his language and correspondence, Father Liebler made use of the ”broken English” pronunciation used by many Navajos”.

As I read those comments, a chill ran down my spine. Barry and I can rightly be accused of making the same mistakes; and probably many more. Although we write about the enjoyment we find working with the local Navajo artists, I am sure that many years from now we may also be found to have been insensitive to the issues of the day.

Ms. May concludes, “In spite of these shortcomings, which [are] rightfully pointed out as the white man’s insensitivity and sense of superiority of language and culture, we still return to the central fact of this man’s goodness. Fr. Liebler brought more love, comfort, patience, hands-on care, and education to the Navajo people than many missionaries did before or during that time in history. He made himself a living example of tolerance and acceptance, of hard work and perseverance. . . .”

These comments about Father Liebler, and how they relate to the relationship Barry and I have with the local Navajo people, have been weighing on my mind lately. Recently I was jogging east on Highway 163 near St. Christopher’s mission; my regular route. As I approached the mission, I was thinking about the book. It had occurred to me that Father Liebler's love for the Navajo people was like the San Juan River; it flowed with great regularity, and gave a certain stability to the land and its people.

I was questioning whether I have any of that goodness in me, when I heard a car approaching from the west. I am very aware of vehicles on the road as I run, so I could tell the car was about a quarter mile behind me and was starting to decelerate. I was approaching the entrance to the mission, so I assumed the driver intended to turn left into the church, which put us on a potential collision course.

I slowed my pace to allow the driver to make the turn without any unnecessary and unfortunate contact. Instead of turning, the driver pulled alongside me and rolled down his window. Assuming he had a question to ask, I looked over and waited for the query. I could see that this sporty red car contained a nice looking Navajo family of mom, dad and three small children. The child closest to me was a young girl of about three years, who was peeking out the side window with a big smile on her face. No question was posed, so I slowed my pace a little more, scrunched my forehead, wrinkled my nose and said in my best gangsta’ slang, “Whassup?”
Daddy driver cocked his head a little to the right, also scrunched his forehead, wrinkled his nose, tilted his hand a bit to allow a better view of the speedometer, and said, “Zero miles per hour!” We both burst out laughing, and he started to accelerate. “Wait,” I said, and picked up my speed. “Five miles per hour,” he said checking his instruments. “Okay, here goes,” I said. “Ten miles per hour,” he laughed, and that little face in the back, which was probably thinking I looked a lot like a bumble bee in my winter running suit of yellow jersey and black tights, just grinned.

Since I was not even half way through my run, I had begun to worry that my burst of energy may have jeopardized my ability to make it back home under my own steam. The driver waved and continued his journey. As the car sped away, the sun was shining, I was shining and the little face, which was now pressed to the back window, was beaming. It was just another day in paradise. And some people ask why we choose to live in a place like this. Maybe Father Liebler and the Beatles had it right, “Love is all you need,” and maybe some of our insensitivities can be excused.

Copyright©2002 Twin Rocks Trading Post