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MK forum • View topic - Notes to Tribers, Monitors, & Moles

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If you're a triber, which is true of you:
1 I post here 44%  44%  [ 7 ]
2 I think this is all blown out of proportion 0%  0%  [ 0 ]
3 I'm supportive, but I'm afraid to post because of possible fallout 0%  0%  [ 0 ]
4 I'm afraid of what this is going to do to NTM 6%  6%  [ 1 ]
5 I'm supportive but I'm too busy to get involved 6%  6%  [ 1 ]
6 I think NTM is doing a great job at handling this 0%  0%  [ 0 ]
7 I think NTM could improve the way they're handling things 44%  44%  [ 7 ]
Total votes : 16
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PostPosted: Sat Oct 09, 2010 3:55 am 
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Posts: 69
Well, I figured if there are that many tribers out there that read but don't post, we might as well make a place that's easy for them to check for notes addressed to them. I know we'll all be kind, but honest.


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PostPosted: Sat Oct 09, 2010 9:44 am 
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Cinco, Ocho, Ocho, Cinco, Ocho, Ocho, Cinco, Nueve, Seis...
Anybody out there?

There was a missionary once in a village in Africa in the middle of dry season. This missionary was very sick and deperately needed medical attention. In the hight of dry season in Africa there is no rain whatsoever, and instead you are left with sand storms. My dad was the pilot responsible for flying into the tribes at the time. He knew that he needed to get in there and get this person out, but he also knew that he could not fly in the sand storm that was raging outside. My sisters and I told mom that we needed to pray, so she had us sit down and pray while in her mind knowing nothing would change, because this was the dry season. All of the sudden it started to rain, the rain pushed down the sand and my dad took off. He flew to the tribe, landed, picked up the missionary, and took off again. The whole time the rain stayed over him and ended right after him so that he could actualy see the wall of sand at his back.

Pray for the rain Tribers, pray for the rain and come in to get us. We need your support. We need to hear your voices.


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PostPosted: Sat Oct 09, 2010 3:41 pm 
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Wow, Denise, that is an awesome story, and a great application. I wish I would have known your Dad. We had some truly great pilots in the Philippines too. Great pilots, great men. Like Martin Burnham. I honor his memory.


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PostPosted: Sat Oct 09, 2010 6:12 pm 
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Thank you Raz, he was an amazing person.


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PostPosted: Sun Oct 10, 2010 7:19 am 
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Posts: 69
Yes, Denise, we need to pray and believe. or believe and pray. God can send rain!

Tribers, we need to band together. We need to not only read here, we need to post and tell these adults who were abused and wounded as kids that we care. We need to put aside our agendas and listen to what they're saying. We need to feel the pain, to cry the tears, to really let the stories touch us instead of reading them from the perspective of "What could this do to NTM, my support, or my ministry?"

Monitor person, I'm glad you're here. I hope you're repeating what you read to anyone who will listen. I hope that despite your possible intentions otherwise you are becoming an advocate. There might, in fact, be so many people praying that you don't have a chance.


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PostPosted: Sun May 22, 2011 11:04 am 
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Yes, we do need to hear the stories of the miracles too. God really does care, even about those people that we shudder about. Id like to tell another story of suffering of the acutest kind, if you don't mind. There were two boys born in my city to separate parents about a decade before me. It was immediately known that they were both mentally retarded. By the time they were six they were taken to a state institution five hours away. Simply because they were classified as severe MR they were together until the one man died in his 40's. We know very little about those years. Parents and family visited a couple of times a year. Home visits were harrowing and eventually stopped. The little one would cry, bang his small head against the walls, move blocks around, and occasionally cuddle with other residents. The bigger one loved to play with elastic. It has a fascination for him that remained his whole life. Instead of buying him however much elastic cord he wanted, the state employees tried to use elastic as a motivating factor to get him to do things. But he outsmarted them. When he needed a new piece he would go up behind a poor unsuspecting soul and lift the back of their underwear out of their britches, and bite off a piece. Then he'd sit contentedly for hours in his wheelchair with fingers on both ends of the elastic, boinging it back and forth. He was not born with any sense of direction. If he wanted to go out of a door to the room, he would walk into every wall in the room before he made it out of the door. He never learned to talk or wear shoes. He fell constantly and injured himself so severely that his head was many times bigger than normal . . . His scalp and face were masses of hills and valleys. They tried everything to hold him down. Restraint jackets--he would squirm his way out of. The state closed down his institution of thousands of people. Each person was to return to their county of origin. We thought we were up to the task of providing a neighborhood home for these two men. For the previous three years the institution gradually closed as people left, the easiest ones to place went first. The best and brightest employees left for new positions . . .the old and bitter ones remained. We took three months to prepare the house for them. When they arrived and the state employees left, we opened their trunks. As if was a precious antique, right on the top was a bright green straight jacket with his name embroidered on it. We gave it to this gentleman, and he took great delight in throwing it on the floor, and running his wheelchair over it. He propelled his wheelchair by rocking it in a thrusting forward motion. He lived less then a year, I made it with him about eight months before getting burnt out. He died on a mat on the floor of a nursing home, the very place we didn't want him to end up at. They never bothered to call me and tell me he died, I heard it a week later in casual conversation. The funeral was already over. Would he have lived longer in his old place? Maybe, for a few months. There was more medical treatment there . . .but look at it this way. It was a bad, bad, concept, to put five thousand men, women, and children together, all of them with severe mental illness or mental retardation. It had to close, and now nobody is there because it was the easiest thing to do. The other little man got a new roommate, and still spends his days scooting around on his bottom, moving cardboard blocks across the room.

Don't know if anyone made it through all of this. Except to say, a bad concept is a bad concept. Boarding schools? Some missions?


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PostPosted: Sun May 22, 2011 12:25 pm 
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Wow, sad story. And another good example of the fact that things that used to seem acceptable and tolerable are NO LONGER acceptable and tolerable.

Mission boards and missionary parents, take note:

Boarding schools for small children are NO LONGER acceptable or tolerable!!!


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PostPosted: Sun May 22, 2011 12:29 pm 
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Posts: 445
This was written months ago and is great!!


Cinco, Ocho, Ocho, Cinco, Ocho, Ocho, Cinco, Nueve, Seis...
Anybody out there?

There was a missionary once in a village in Africa in the middle of dry season. This missionary was very sick and deperately needed medical attention. In the hight of dry season in Africa there is no rain whatsoever, and instead you are left with sand storms. My dad was the pilot responsible for flying into the tribes at the time. He knew that he needed to get in there and get this person out, but he also knew that he could not fly in the sand storm that was raging outside. My sisters and I told mom that we needed to pray, so she had us sit down and pray while in her mind knowing nothing would change, because this was the dry season. All of the sudden it started to rain, the rain pushed down the sand and my dad took off. He flew to the tribe, landed, picked up the missionary, and took off again. The whole time the rain stayed over him and ended right after him so that he could actualy see the wall of sand at his back.

Pray for the rain Tribers, pray for the rain and come in to get us. We need your support. We need to hear your voices.


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PostPosted: Sun May 22, 2011 12:30 pm 
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PostPosted: Sun May 22, 2011 2:09 pm 
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Remember the ham radio days? I would wake up at home with a This is PY9 Zed A K --- it was great fun for dad. The only thing was that the ham station at Via was on the other side of the base, and if they ran to get you the connection would be lost. Dad has no sense of his own personal safety, always cutting into his own hands, feet, while building churches. Anyway one day he burned himself with acid down his arms to his armpits. He still managed to get to the ham radio and tell RB about it on the ham radio the next morning. During chapel/devotions RB announced that my dad needed prayer for his acid burned arms. I got up and left, crying. My dorm mother was smoking mad about it. She told RB that if anything like that happened to her girls, they better tell us first. I was mortified that I cried, and somebody stook up for me. Anyway, I never cried after that about anything to do with dad.


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