Every July for the past seven years, my quiet corner of North Georgia has become the site of a Native American Sundance ceremony. While the rest of the nation stocks up on beer and firecrackers for the Fourth, the Sundancers arrive in cars with license plates from Florida, North Carolina, Massachusetts and Maine. They come for four days of purification followed by four days of prayer and fasting, during which many of them undergo physical trials that are hard to watch. They do this for the love of God, who has promised to meet them when they pray in this way. One of them dances for a sick wife, another for an autistic child. Some pray for their enemies and others for the healing of the earth, but on the whole they do not speak of this. They have come to dance, not to talk, and what happens to them in the Sundance arbor is all the proof they need that God hears their prayers.