o the First Peoples, the Earth-Keepers, the Original Spiritual Architects,

I speak to you not as visitors to this world—but as those who have always known how to live with it. Before any doctrine, before any dogma, before conquest and conversion—you were already walking with the Divine.

You never needed a book to find God. You needed the sky. The river. The wind. The fire. The voice of the ancestor whispering through the drumbeat. You knew God not as a stranger, but as family. Not as above, but within, beneath, around, and breathing through all things.
You’ve honored the sacred through dance, ritual, sacrifice, naming ceremonies, vision quests, rain chants, plant medicine, and oral wisdom passed from elder to child. You understand balance. You understand reciprocity. You know that the Earth is not to be dominated—but to be in covenant with.

From the Yoruba Ifá, the Lakota Pipe Ceremonies, the Dagara Fire Rituals, the Sami Joik songs, the Aboriginal Dreamtime, the Inuit ice wisdom, to the Kogi Mamas who still meditate to keep the world intact—you have carried the responsibility of maintaining divine order without ever needing validation.

And yet, the world tried to erase you. Colonizers burned your altars, stole your children, banned your songs. But you didn’t die—you went underground, you braided your prayers into your hair, you hid your languages in lullabies, and you waited.
Now you are rising again.

I honor your sweat lodges, your tree plantings, your scarification rituals, your moon ceremonies, your animal kinship, and your ancestral reverence. I honor the deep drum and the silent gaze into the fire. You’ve kept us alive even when we didn’t know we were dying.
The world needs your prayers now more than ever.

I thank you. I honor you. I remember you.
You are sacred.
You are the pulse of the Divine still drumming through the land.