The Indians of the American continents, lived mostly in peace. There were times of fighting, when disputes between two tribes rose up, and then, the killing and the violence got very graphic. There never any real victors in squirmishes like these, as each side mourned their loses, and rejoiced over their gains, however small. The native tribes were as different and varied as was the locations on the continent where their tribes had lived for generations. But no matter their location, no matter the terrain common to their environment, all worshipped God, who they knew as the Great Spirit in the sky. All, each in their own tongue, worshiped the great Spirit, a Spirit that they could not see. But then one day, a man walked among them, speaking to them in their native tongue. His color wasn't like the darkened red of their faces. But rather his skin had a pallor like a burnished brass. His hair although like theirs in color, differed too. Theirs was mostly straight, while his looked like wool.
When he spoke to them, even though he spoke in their language, they would have to lean in closer, and concentrate on his words, as the sound of his voice was like the sound of many running waters.
He has risen! Have a blessed Easter.
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