Indonesian Earthquake-Please Give

I got the following information in an email from Mercy Corps, a relief and development agency I trust, founded by a Christian Dan O’Neill and supported by singer John Michael Talbot. Please give.
Help Speed Relief to Earthquake Survivors
Thousands of survivors from Saturday’s earthquake in Indonesia are injured, homeless and grieving for lives lost. Mercy Corps is in the most affected villages on the island of Java, rushing rapid relief to those in need.
We need your help to deliver ongoing, critical aid to families who have lost everything.
Our emergency response team is providing families whose homes were destroyed with “survival kits” that contain tarpaulins, blankets and hygiene products. Temporary shelter is one of the most important issues in the aftermath of the earthquake, which killed almost 5,700 people and left 200,000 without homes.
Mercy Corps in working in four villages around the devastated city of Bantul. The agency expects to serve more than 25,000 survivors in the near-term, then continue to assist families as they rebuild their homes and lives.
Mercy Corps has a long history of helping Indonesian families recover from conflict and disasters. We responded with lifesaving aid within hours of the 2004
Indian Ocean Tsunami, and are still helping over 423,000 tsunami survivors as they continue to restore their communities.
Earthquake survivors need your help today. Please speed immediate relief to them by making a generous donation today.
This morning listening to the radio on the way on in, they were noticing that many in the West are experiencing compassion fatigue from too many disasters around the world in recent years. I confess I have felt this a little at times, but more so in more personalized presentations of need. But compassion fatigue? Really? And even if it is there, what about hunger fatigue, sickness fatigue, heartsick fatigue? What about fatigue from hopelessness?
I remember reading a war comic many years ago and in one scene the soldiers are having break in the action and the commander says “Smoke, if you got ’em,” meaning cigarettes. Well, might I similarly suggest, “Give if you got it.”

Get a Charge-The Current

Just a quick post from work to let you all know about a cool online radio station I am listening to just now. My friend Annette recommended it as a good source to find new “Finds” in Indie music and to hear what’s new from old favorites. And, in my brief listening, I have already found this to be true. Good stuff.
The Current comes to you from Minnesota Public Radio. I would recommend keeping their page open also as you listen as it lets you know who is “Now Playing,” always a nice feature.
Also, make sure check out the free track, The Henney Buggy Band, from Sufjan Steven’s upcoming album The Avalanche which consists of extra tracks from the Illinois recording sessions.

MS-150 Bicycle Tour

For the past three years I have been riding a 150 mile charity ride to raise funds Multiple Sclerosis research.
After last year’s tour, I put down my bike and did not pick it up again for nearly four months. Not a good and balanced strategy for staying in shape. Mind you, intially, part of the reason was because of blisters (I will spare you the details), but then I got out of the drill of enduring pain for an hour or two to get a host of benefits throughout the day.
And, so, last year I determined that I was not going to do the MS-150 this year. Three times in a row was a nice feat, was it not? The 200+ miles of last year’s ride were a good note to end on, no?
Well, it is spring again and a young man’s thoughts turn to…well, how his $1000 bike…

…is a clothes rack, and that for clothes that fit much too snugly. And, well, why not? It is a good cause.
Last year, I raised $1071 and shaved my legs. This year, I am shooting for $1200. I have not figured out just what incentive I might give my supporters to reach my fundraising goal. Shaving my head is a logical choice, but I am rather enjoying my long locks. Any suggestions?
If you would like to support this worthy cause, you may contribute by either letting me know >via email how much you wish to donate and then sending a check to me, or going online and donating via bank/credit card from this page (the donation link is on the top right). This really is the best option.
And 200 miles again? I don’t think so, but who knows. For reports on previous tours see below:
2005
2004 & 2003
And, if you would like to join me in riding, come on along. It will be fun…well, kind of…but well worth it. You can sign up here.

“Your Mother is a Whore!”

Here is a prescient and humorous point from a review of Da Da Vinci Code by Steven D. Greydanus, who is a Christian (and I believe Catholic) film reviewer. The entire review is worth reading.
Is it possible to put all this aside and just enjoy the story as a thriller, an enjoyable yarn? I honestly have no idea how people can take that approach.
Catholic writer Mark Shea tells an anecdote about a college bull session among students at Central Washington University over The Da Vinci Code. “Even if it’s just fiction,” a student opined, “it’s still interesting to think about.”
To which another student replied: “Your mother’s a whore.” And then, to the first student’s stunned incredulity, he added, “And even if that’s just fiction, it’s still interesting to think about.”
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This quote reminds me of a phrase which I like a lot which one of my former pastors would remind me of when we were discussing troubles in the church, local and universal. Acknowledging its faults and flaws, we both have respect for aspects of the Catholic church. This phrase, though, really applies to the Church universal coming down through the ages, which will one day be Christ’s glorious, spotless bride.
“She’s a bitch and whore, but she still is my mother.”

Sitting on the Sidelines, but Definitely on a Specific Team

I am sorry to be sitting on the sidelines on this one, not having read the book, nor planning on seeing the movie (at least not on opening weekend).
Thankfully there are some faithful, thoughtful Christians not sitting on the sidelines.
Jeffrey Overstreet has been blogging with passion and comprehensiveness on this issue for some months, and a lot recently.
Catholic movie critic and scriptwriter, Barbara Nicolosi, has been blogging passionately for a long time
You might also consider joining the Othercott, an effort spearheaded by some Catholic groups. 10 things to do.
Finally, its just not getting that good reviews:
*Metacritic reviews
*Rotten Tomatoes reviews
I am not a huge fan of boycotts, but Indian Christians and Muslims get the potential harm the film might cause.

SSSSSSSSSSSS…..Mmmm, Fresh Bacon!

Good stuff.

Mother’s Day Letter

Dear Mom,
Hi! Well, its been a while since I talked to you. I know I am not really not now either, but that is not important. It’s been almost 11 years now and sometimes I feel I haven’t grown a day since you’ve been gone. Of course I have, really.
Physically, that Bodenbach body that you always warned me I’d have to keep an eye on weight-wise has been doing exactly what you predicted. I remember your admonitions when I was a boy, “OK, Neil, that is your last cookie.” On the positive side, though, Mom, I have the broad shoulders of a man, and the beard I always worried would never fill in has, and I grow it at least once a year. And when Adi and Virg and I are dressed up, I think we would make you proud.
Mom, I’ve grown relationally and spiritually too. It is funny that I’ve become quite the thinker. It would have been nice to know what you would have thought of that. You probably would have brought me back down to earth at times. Also, Mom, at times I really feel God is able to use me relationally to encourage and help people, and someday I may even find that I am supposed to be a pastor. I am not sure about that, though.
Despite all that growth, though, Mom sometimes I feel emotionally just like that boy of 16, needing you there to affirm me, to give me wisdom, to pester me about girlfriends, and to provide a lap I could sit in no matter what size I got to be. Also, a “khoe” affects no one quite the way it did you. It would make goose pimples rise on your arms….If none receive “khoes,” different women do at times seem like “mother,” though, in various ways. None, of course, could ever replace you, nor is that what I am seeking, but sometimes a word, a touch, or an action will remind me of the gap your absence leaves in my life.
Well, Mom, just a few more things. Dad has been great. He loved you and loves us deeply. Sometimes I have not appreciated him enough or cared for him well enough. Of course, things would be much different if you were still here, but I know, I know, I know that God knows exactly what He is doing, and I love Him.
I do not know if you are reading this over my shoulder or not, or, perhaps, I am there with you too reading, reminiscing, and rejoicing in God in the light of the Eternal Day.
Much, much, much remembered love, your former son,
Neil 🙂
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Judging from the number of years mentioned in this letter from the time of my mother’s passing, this letter was written in 1998.
Readers, thank you all for indulging a rather emotional string of posts this past week. Blessings on you all.

Mother’s Day IV-Quotes and Quips

My mother grew up a straight-laced, Baptist girl (who didn’t smoke and didn’t chew and didn’t go with boys that do) but ended life a Presbyterian, who was wont to take her family to Luthern church for Christmas Eve service (though she still wasn’t much for smoking or chewing). Once, upon looking into the student lounge of our boarding school when my brother Virgil was in school, she remarked, “It’s a den of iniquity!” Nonetheless, though she could be easily embarrassed by innuendo, she often rather relished a slightly bawdy joke, particularly if it had a medical angle.
On the embarrassment end, once she turned bright red when colleague at a hospital in the US remarked that she had to buy her son a G-string. “Get your mind out of the gutter, Norma,” her colleague remarked, “It’s for his guitar.”
Her two favorite jokes were as follows.
*A doctor who was taking a rather a long time to perform a circumcision slipped as he finished. “It won’t be long now,” he said.
Only when my mother told this joke (and for the life of me I can’t remember in what type of situations she would actually tell it), she would often muddle the punchline, saying instead, “I’ll make short work of this.” We boys would howl.
*The old rabbi was getting along in age and his life work was to be celebrated. The younger rabbis were at a loss as to what to get him as a present. Finally, they decided to make a gift for him, as that always seems to be more meaningful. There were several months before the party and so they decided to save the foreskins from all the circumcisions to make a wallet. For some reason, there were less than the usual number of circumcisions during those months and so there was not much material to work with. Upon receiving the gift, the old rabbi remarked that, “Yes, thank you. It is very nice, but it is rather small.” To which a rabbi replied, “Oh, don’t worry about that, rabbi. Just rub it softly and it will turn into a briefcase.”
And I really can’t remember when my mother would repeat that joke. For some reason, though, my extreme gullibility perhaps, my classmates convinced me to tell that joke to my high school biology class. Miss Robertson, a Scottish missionary teacher who could be gotten off topic for an entire double period listening to our complaints about boarding and who sometimes took it upon herself to give us some necessary sex education, was rather taken aback when I delivered it, uttering something to the effect of “Yes, thank you, Neil,” as the boys who had put me up to it earthquaked with stifled laughter. And my only justification then, is my only justification now for posting it on my blog, “My mother told me that joke.”

Mother’s Day III-Excerpts from an Essay

*My world began in a dusty corner of Pakistan in the relative cool of the winter. My childhood was normal, I suppose, if that statement can ever be made without being made an oxymoron in light of the varied and creative exploits of children. But it had its share of joys and fears and tears, and in the sense that every childhood seems to have each of these in some proportion, my childhood was indeed normal. Being normal, though, did not mean that it was not unique, and from the start it was apparent, though thankfully not to the mind of a child, that my life would be lived in various different worlds.
Mom was from Southern Illinois and Daddy from Pakistan. She was a nursing student in Boulder and he a psychology graduate student in Austin. And somewhere in the Rockies, in the dead of winter, the spark was kindled that would leap into the flame of a blessed life together on the steamy plains of Pakistan.
*If life were peopled with variety, its experience was varied even more greatly. The influences of East and West flowed into my mind as naturally as the tides and sought to mix into some common level It was Mom, really, who made of these parts a consistent whole. She worked creatively to maintain the American side of our heritage, giving Christmas and other holidays their traditional American flavor, while at the same time celebrating them with vigor in Pakistani setting as well.
Christmas meant stockings and stories and Christmas dinner and singing carols around the glow of the advent wreath as we contemplated the meaning of the season. Christmas also meant going to a plethora of dramas at local institutions; greeting the local carolers with traditional oranges and peanuts; watching the midnight procession to the church with its camels and candlelight; going to church, burgeoning with a perennial influx of members; then going home to have dinner with our extended family, with spicy curry and meatballs and rice. The differences were less like the two sides of a coin, than the separate threads of a tapestry, woven together into a whole, mainly because of the influence of Mom.
Her life testified to the understanding that all people were important. She worked countless hours at a hospital, but sill managed to teach me through third grade and my brothers through fifth and seventh, to provide a quality English education for us. She walked to work, an unthinkable action for even middle class people in Pakistan. Her route took her through often squalid streets, sodden with backed up rain water, and past the walls of houses patterned with drying buffalo chips, the fuel of the indigent. And when she saw need or a woman who would greet her, she would stop and talk, often bringing much needed medicines, to the effusive thanks of those who received them. At work, she would often roll up her sleeve to give blood when a patient’s relatives refused to do so. Among our family in Pakistan and all others who knew her, she was loved beyond words. There were a thousand other things that I cannot begin to write about her, but simply stated, her life was a testament and a model which has shaped mine more than I will ever know.
*The crescendo of life a MCS came in my senior year. At the beginning of my senior year, a major part of my world was shattered before it totally shattered in July. My mother was killed in an accident. By some reports, four thousand people came to her funeral and the impact of her life became apparent. Life for me would never be the same. But go on it had to, as it always does, and grief and memories slowly eddied into the still backwaters of my mind as I returned to the busy-ness of school.
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For the full essay, click here.

Mother’s Day II

It was somewhere along Highway 67 in the middle of rural, western Illinois on the way to deputation. It was just my mother and me in our 1976 yellow-green Ford Maverick. She had just learned to drive a few years earlier in her late forties.
Deputation was that traveling road show that career missionaries were compelled to perform to raise support, a show which seemed to call for humility amidst a retelling of one’s accomplishments, and which worked best when spiced with cross-cultural anecdotes and colored by fancy dress and displays, to become like animated missionary prayer letters. Mom was a great one for color and anecdotes, but not so much on the self-aggrandizement. She pretty much was straightforward, and the nature of her work as a nurse and nurse educator and her person itself did the talking.
She was telling me about her quiet times, about how she had been reading about King David and how God would not allow him to build the temple because he had been a warrior and shed so much blood. Reading the pertinent passages since, I think she was more or less right. She went on to detail the see-saw pattern of wicked kings and righteous kings in the history of Israel.
What the discussion served to do at the time was to cause an epiphany of the sort you only have as you are growing up, when some key concept of how the world works is made clear. “Ah, we can do something with the Bible other than just read its stories. We can find patterns and principles.” Other top ten epiphany moments for me include learning about the surface to volume ratio and how it impacts cell biology and learning about predestination, “We believe what?”
What I envy about that situation now, though, is simply the possibility to talk theology with my mother, to see what she thought, to understand, perhaps, why she thought it. On second thought, I don’t think it would matter what we talked about.
I love rural Illinois.
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