CANNONBALL - Boots Marsh, a retired oil field worker, part Cherokee, has begun growing his hair out, into a braid.

That's because when Buford "Boots" and Jackie Marsh pulled up stakes in Texas four years ago to start a ministry in a cavernous building they call Tipi Wakan, on the outskirts of Cannon Ball on the Standing Rock Reservation, they came with the intention to stay on the reservation.

But people who have been on the reservation for a while say it will take years until people believe they mean it.

That skepticism is rooted in generations of experience with Christian mission work on reservations. Even among those who have come and stayed - Catholic, Episcopal, Congregational - good and bad history is densely tangled. Some in recent years have set down on the reservation only to leave almost as quickly as they arrived, creating another layer of cynicism.

Too many mission groups come to the reservation with the goal of conversion, but then they leave, said Matt Lopez, a minister working out of New Hope Church of God in Lemmon, S.D., and an at-large member of the Standing Rock Tribal Council. People will respond if you love them, he said, but they need continuity, an ongoing connection.

At a "Native Ministry 101"conference in Bismarck this fall, the Rev. Hank Stokes from the Stronghold Church in Gallup, N.M. - Navajo country - said that effective reservation ministry must first touch people's hearts.

"It will be a long and arduous, uphill walk," Stokes said. "If you show love, it will make an impact. But it will take a long time, longer than you think."

q q q

An appointment in his denomination is generally four years, said the Rev. Carl Nobles of Mobridge, S.D., who serves the Church of God in McLaughlin, S.D.

"That is a drawback for the church," he said. "Just when things may be getting good, we might pack up and go. And you don't know the damage you might cause by going early."

Nobles, a South Carolina native, has been on Standing Rock for three years. Like Boots Marsh, Nobles is part Cherokee, but he's living in a place where, as a new person, eyes are always on you, he said.

"If I was white, Idon't think it would be as effective," he said.

Those attending his church are all Native people, he said. He believes in approaching people with sensitivity and understanding.

"I try to just be available for the people," he said. "You can cure a lot of ills with just your basics."

q q q

Among those basics are clothing, bedding, furniture and food. Kris Morrissette, a member of Charity Lutheran Church in Bismarck, goes to McLaughlin periodically with a group of local volunteers to bring those basics to Freedom Fellowship, run by Harvey and Patti Schmeichel.

The volunteers interact with the kids that the Fellowship serves breakfast to every Sunday morning, some of whom might not have eaten all weekend, Morrissette said.

Pulling up to Freedom Fellowship's back door, the most noticeable sight is the blackened, burned-through roof of the house across the alley. A pickup with a flashing lights sits at the curb and Harvey and Patti Schmeichel are running cardboard boxes over to the house.

Two separate fires broke out the previous night - one charred this roof only two days after the death of the owner, Patti Schmeichel said. "People like to start fires," she said. Suspects - kids - get picked up but they're out the next day, she said.

The entrance to Freedom Fellowship from the alley runs through a parking bay - the building formerly housed an ambulance service - via a single-file corridor between a 13-passenger bus and stacks of donated clothing and household goods.

The Schmeichels cheerfully call their building a hand-me-down church. New Song Church in Bismarck donated folding chairs; the carpet is from Evangel Assembly of God in Bismarck.

The Schmeichels held their first service here in February 2000 for about 25 people.

In the beginning, daylight came through the roof and rats and mice scurried through at services. Harvey Schmeichel says when Patti's dad first saw the building, his advice was "put a match to it."

"It looked totally hopeless," he said.

And that's the same way some look at a lot of people's lives, Patti Schmeichel said.

This is not your normal church, she said. The ministry is not affiliated with a national denomination. In most churches, pastors don't get night calls asking him to fix somebody's car or sewer. Certain weeks of the month, the phone rings almost nonstop, she said.

"It's not easy to make a difference," Patti Schmeichel said. "We link arms with people, be there for the practical needs."

The Schmeichels call their ministry "not a handout, but a hand up."

"A handout is the easy way, but not a long-term solution,"Harvey Schmeichel said.

He admits that they've gotten burned at times: "We don't just hand out money,"he said. "We pray for discernment."

The church was robbed in May, Patti Schmeichel said. Someone took the stereo system that they used for kids' church - that bothered her, that somebody would steal from the children - but her keyboard is still here, she said.

People ask her: "Doesn't this break your heart?"

Yes, your heart will break, she replies. "But God will fix it."

q q q

Harvey Schmeichel said they've seen other ministries leave, discouraged. Other groups come and go from the reservation weekly - that doesn't work either, he said.

He was raised in McLaughlin and he and Patti believe that living in the community is how you get to know those you're ministering to. It also lets people see how you live your life, Patti Schmeichel said.

Nothing can be done overnight, the Schmeichels say - to them progress is when Indians and non-Indians come together and when people show up tidy and clean for the church's parenting classes.

Aministry like this makes a person more reliant on God, Harvey Schmeichel said: "Iknow you have to be called," he said. "Unless you're called, there's no staying power."

People ask her how she handles the pain she sees, Patti Schmeichel said.

"I plant flowers,"she says. Flowers, she said, are like "the treasures we've found in people here. In every person, God has that beauty."

There's a lot of tears, late nights and fatigue, she said. Thinking of the children, what they go through, is particularly hard, she said.

But she sees hope: When she talks with children, she asks them an ordinary question:What are you going to do when you grow up?

At first, there is silence. No one answers. It's as if no one can imagine that they have a future. So many futures have died young on Standing Rock.

But with some encouragement, kids are starting to talk about becoming firefighters or doctors, she said.

"Now dreams are coming forth."

(Reach reporter Karen Herzog at 250-8267 or karen.herzog.) @bismarcktribune.com