God Bless Father Doug on His Journey

 

Newsletter of the Kailakuri Health Care Project February 2009

 

To all our friends:

I sat down to write a letter in memory of Doug, who has helped us just so much of the years, then found this old one of his (below) which says it all in his words.

Here is a man totally committed to Jesus and determined to live with the poor. He did not make religious converts. His aim was to be the love of Jesus amongst the poor. He was a saint, but a rough one. He would cycle the two miles from Pirgacha Mission to Kailakuri wearing an old lungi right up until about three months before he died at the age of 81. He was our biggest donor.

All that remains to say is that when he was diagnosed as having leukemia a month before he died, he elected to take no treatment. He did not want to waste money that could be used for the poor. He wanted to die in his little hut in the village and be buried amongst his people. But it was not to be, and in devoted obedience he accepted the decision.

We wept at his funeral in the beautiful cathedral of Mymensingh. As his body, wrapped simply in a sheet and tied in a bamboo mat was lowered into the grave (so deep and cold), the earth slipped and he fell…I felt as if I had been struck across the chest! This was the poverty he desired.

                God bless Fr. Doug on his journey. He was not perfect, but we believe he has arrived in Heaven and the saints are giving praise to God. Thank you Doug. If we have offended you in any way please forgive us.

 

Edric Baker.

 

RIVER RECORD –50 Years- COCONUT CHONICLE

The shell holds, the nut is in place as it floats down stream toward the mouth

Christmas 2008

I am made up of all those with whom I walked: Family, teachers, school mates, friends, fellow Maryknollers, spiritual directors, plus my companions and neighbors in mission. How can I tell you a story of 80 years of living and 50 years in mission unless you too know them? May they flow through these pages, briefly as they will, like beautiful and ever changing billowed clouds in a clear blue sky! This summer I walked with Fr. Jack Grady, a friend and formerly my spiritual guide. Jack, my age, has lost a lot of his memory, garbles his words, shuffles his feet and is fading. But he looked up at those fluffly white clouds drifting along, glanced at me and waved his arms excitedly toward them. He was smiling broadly. Joy filled his heart even though the mind drifted.

Mom and Dad never seemed to have a plan. They just handled us day by day. Heavens know that was hard enough. They brought with them their backgrounds (formation). Dad Russ learned life on the tailings of a copper mine in a company house. That’s poverty. In his simplicity and faithfulness he worked hard to feed and clothe us. He was not a man of words. Mom Ruth absorbed a Germanic discipline, honesty, and well formed faith. Discipline: Each of us kids had our tasks. Honesty: In 1938 Mom advertised in a newspaper to find an owner of $16 cash I found. It was depression and Dad was out o work. Faith: Her own dad (Grandpa) drove us to Mass and school on many days. I remember Lent and no candy. Good Friday – Keep silence till after 3 O’clock ceremonies. Holy Saturday – Venne kids watched the blessing of the Big Candle and Holy Water. Not many other kids were there. Yes, confession every Saturday. Was our house a monastery? There was a spirit of it except when we were fighting, racing around the dining room table to escape one another.

The good Dominican Sisters of St. Pat’s were of the same background as Mom. So we got more good foundation. What did we kids know about that? Something was building in our hearts and in our school mates so we could face the world as Christians (Catholics). The training was a bit narrow but we learned to walk a line. Even I, in 6^th grade, who knew little besides recess and the playground heard Sr. Regina (still alive as I write) to say to me, “You could be a priest.” The words cut deep into my heart but bypassed my mind. Those thoughts only returned when the Lord prompted. Sr. Regina spent most of her life championing causes for the poor and oppressed. We are made of, inspired and led by people who influence us. Thanks, Lord, for my parents and all those who cared about us when growing up.

I played a lot of sports (Too much?) in grade, high school, army, and college. I loved to play. My big opportunity came in football at Loras College. In pre-season practice my leg was broken. Headlines in the local paper read, “Venne breaks leg.” The season was over, finished. What to do? My girl, Marie and I had talked of marriage. But this incident struck me deeply. “What are you going to do with your life?” Sr. Regina’s words came screaming back in my heart. “You can be a missioner.” (that desire, popped into my mind when I was a GI in Japan, 1947) I finally yielded to God’s pressure. I wrote to Marie and confessed I was a coward to face her straight on. I asked the Lord to take care of Marie and keep me on the straight path. You’ll have to ask Marie if the Lord heard me.

With that I was off to Maryknoll Seminary system, 4 places in 7 years. Routine seminary life was rather easy. Competition was nil. High marks were not flaunted. We had manual labor daily and sports, both of which I liked. The challenge was to live in an attitude of Christ. I did put effort here. I had been reading about Charles de Foucauld and the Little Brothers of Jesus. I wanted to join them. I went monthly to spiritual direction and felt strongly I should tell Fr Jake Driscoll about this yearning. When I did, Fr. Jake answered without a break, “You came here, you stay here.” Was I sad at his reply? No! I loved Maryknoll and my class. I was even relieved at his decision. Yet this desire to follow Bro. Charles’ life among the poor never let my heart.

In 1959 fifty seven of us stretched out on the sanctuary floor. We were ordained. How I loved all my classmates! If I described the 50 year path of each one, you might be inspired; you might be shocked. But isn’t that true of all our paths. None of us knows where the path will lead. We trust in the Lord.

I sailed to the Philippines Islands, a mostly Catholic nation with 4 other missioners. By nature the Filipino people are gentle, great care-givers. The US today is blessed by the Filipino presence. Language school went quickly. In 1961 Fr. Herb Elliot was my first pastor in Maniki, Kapalong. Mindanao was a pioneer; forest galore, new lands to be worked. Nature was in charge here. Our church was on a river bend and flooded 6 times that year, pews floating. We hustled to wash down the mud ring off the walls as the flood receded. I loved it all. There was so much pastoral work to be done. Hatched, matched and dispatched as we called baptisms, marriages, and burials. For years there had been very few priests.

Here, I first witnessed the service of the ladies. Succorro Rafol, president of the Catholic Women’s league and Legion of Mary, became a life long friend. I visit her each time I go back. She had the courage to tell me one time, with tongue in cheek, “You just came back to visit your lady friends.” How true. Many men had passed on.

To learn mission work better in 1962, I was transferred to Banganga on the East Coast. Fr. Justin Kennedy challenged me to grow. I realized again how Filipinas carried the church, wonderful, dedicated and faithful Lilia Pacita, Beatriz, Fe The men needed attention. We had a kind of block rosary each night, Barangay sang Birhen. Each house had it own night; 15 houses was a round. Woman always led the prayers. I had befriended the stevedores – they carry bundles on their heads, some at 150 lbs. Wading from boat to shore. How I loved those strong, simple men, supporting their families. One night at rosary time, I asked one a stevedore friend (I wish I knew his name) to lead the rosary. He reluctantly took the challenge. At the end of the rosary, a pool of sweat sat where he knelt. What pressure! Yet, he did it, these men who didn’t even break a sweat with heavy head loads. That’s real courage.

Caraga, 1963, a neighbor to Baganga, was a new challenge. Fr. Denny Lally died at 37 and I replaced him. Here the men almost never went to church. The men’s Nocturnal Adoration Society was dead. With Polycarpo and others I decided to visit all the houses in the parish. In those hills that was a lot of work. After months of door-to-door canvassing we called for a night of Adoration of the Blessed Sacrament. We could hardly believe it. 400 men showed up. This proved to me that their hearts were in the right place. They needed a shepherd to encourage them.

One new movement arrived in 1964 in the Islands, called the Cursillo (means a short course – in Christianity.) What an effect is was to have! I was (originally) male-oriented. All over the country men were having their first experience of being a Chrisitian, of meeting and knowing Jesus. It spread like wild fire. There were long waiting lists to make it. Fr. Jim Noonan took the reigns in the Tagum Prelature. Yet, the parishes wanted it too. Fr. Mike Hiegel and Ed Gerlock simplified it for the parish level. Many of us jumped on the band wagon. This was the first real formation these persons experienced in their faith. They were eager for it. What an experience it was for us young missioners out in the field! We called ourselves, “mudders.” We just wanted to be one with the people. But, sadly at this time, Fr. George McPeak, my god friend and classmate, had a break down and I flew home with him. It was the beginning of a 32 year apostolate in the agony in the garden for gentle George. He always wanted to go back but alas, did not make it.

When I returned, Bishop Joe Regan grabbed me. “Doug, you will start a parish in New Corella.” The people. Boholanos (Island of Bohol), had built a little house with two rooms 10 years before, in their hope for a priest. Fine! It was a pleasure to fulfill their hope. On arrival as usual the faithful women greeted me. Petra, a spry 80-plus lady, asked the others, “Where’s his wife?” Boholano Filipinas are used to seeing their pastor with a live-in lady. Miguel and Demitrio offered to be secretaries so that our two-room convento became the center. With Arcadio, (later mayor) and others we again set out, door-to-door to challenge the men, this time with the Cursillo. We got to be kind of a gang, barcada. The parish grew.

Basilisa also formed the catechists for teaching the little ones and having First Communion retreats. Yes, we had retreats for them, fun and games. Basilisa was a real woman of faith. She worked for over 33 years in the mountains, caring for children and folks almost alone, with very little pay. I was sad when they told me that she had died, a saint if I ever knew one.

Not all was peaches and cream. Walking in the mountains we saw many settlers. We also saw loggers, claiming all the land as theirs, oppressing the hard working farmers, even bulldozing their crops. I had occasion to stand before a bulldozer, with papers in hand, so it would not wipe out his coconut trees. But we stood helpless as the machine plowed into the house. Greed was the driving cause. My friend Loretto’s father-in-law, Anecleto Pal, was run over by a logging truck because he had the courage to stand up to them. The Maryknoll ‘mudders’ were now muddying their hands, helping the oppressed.

Meanwhile in 1967, I was asked to put up a radio station. “Who, Me?” I didn’t know a thing about radios. The Bishop and men wanted to give the people a voice. Boy, was I out of my field! I started out, got frustrated and I did not know where to turn. But the Lord intervened. My jeep got smashed by a logging truck and I lost an eye. I spent 2 years in the States recuperating. Howie Bieber and Tom Mantica put up a marvelous local station; it caught and held the attention of most people in the area. Any barefooted person could come in and send a message over public radio to their home in the hills. Alas, it was one of the first stations closed by the Dictator President Marcos, never to be reopened again.

On my return in 1970 to the Philippines Bishop Joe Regan entrusted me with the parish of Compostela. Bishop Joe was an example for us all. He had only the people’s interest at heart and worked at it. He told us once, “I don’t mind what you do but stay in and serve your parishes.” Well, Compostela had some 30,000 members, 55 barrios. What to do? Be creative like Bishop Joe advised. We formed a team, Ibay, Pedro, Inigo, Bebing, Liza, Jesus and others, married and single, volunteer and paid, woman and men. I had only one vote and no veto power. To this day I am amazed at the closeness of our staff. No one pulled rank. Our discussions aimed at parish service, not personal wants. It was truly a gift from God.

The 55 barrios had presidents. They and our staff met monthly (required) to discuss barrio services and visits, seminars and workshops. Such a big parish should be partitioned. One night some 30 of us met and pondered the question. Yes, we could have 5 centers. Each center would get 25% of the stipends in their area to start with and more when they learned. They accepted the challenge. (It is almost 40 years and 4 of these 5 centers are now parishes.) The community had looked ahead, worked at it and God blessed his people. I too was blessed to be part of that staff and parish. These folks so impressed me that I feel no boundary between lay persons and clerical servants.

In the mountains of this parish Compostela we had tribal peoples, the Mandayas. We taught them for 2 years and baptized 400 on one day. What a marvelous experience to see whole families, fathers, mothers and down to the little ones, walk up, bow their heads and be baptized. I loved the hill people.

Those hills were high. No cattle could climb the sides of the mountains. Friends of mine gathered funds to carve out a primitive road so water buffalo could climb up and work for them so under the leader ship of Pablo they worked hard with shovel, pick and axe to wind a trail up the hill. What a beautiful sight it was to see one day a huge steaming pile of water buffalo droppings.

Jim Noonan, our Maryknoll superior, reminded me of my willingness to serve in anther area of the Philippines. But I was committed to help this parish form 5 centers. How could I obey? However, I put myself in the hands of my staff and 55 presidents. “Can you help me decide?” We had a meeting. I explained to them, “Maryknoll wants me in another mission but I promised you I’d stay. You decided.” I left the room to pray in the Church. Almost an hour passed before they called me. “Yes, you can answer the call; but you must promise us that the process of 5 centers will continue, that the tribal people will be cared for and lastly that you will write to us.” I could promise and I am still writing now after 35 years. We have to trust each other.

So I traveled to Zambonga the town of Sergio Osmena, Sr. with Fr. Bob McCahill. Leodegario loved to gamble on the fighting cocks. But one day Fr. Bb caught him on the path and challenged him to come and join the Christian seminar for the parish. Gario did. He never turned back. He had 11 kids and a farm to work but he sacrificed much to be in seminars with Fr. Bob and me. I tramped those mountains with Gario for 1 ½ years and left. Gario kept on for another 25 years before a heat attack took him HOME. His son Patricio became a Little Brother of Jesus some 15 years ago, living with the poor in Manila squatter’ quarters. How blessed I was to witness such total self giving of my friend Gario and his family.

Bob McCahill and I volunteered for Bangladesh in 1975. We were some 35 years in mission together. A fraternity of five of us Maryknollers entered the country to do outreach work with and for Muslims and Hindus, that is, for the poor. The language was not easy for me. My hearing is not good. Being poor in the language is my biggest cross, not being able to understand what they were telling me. What can I do? Well, I wanted to be poor and so I am, in the language.

My first exposure was in Dhaka working with Dr. Jack Preger, an English doctor, dedicated to the street people in Bangladesh. I joined him. The work seemed ideal. Dr. Jack lived hand to mouth in those days, providing care at the railroad station for the sick. He put up tents for a “Boys’ Town” right on the tarmac. Bihari war refugees told him how their children were stolen and sold abroad. Dr. Jack published that in French and English papers. For that they deported him. What a loss for Bangladesh poor.

Dr. Jack moved on to Kolkata (Calcutta) and put up street side clinics. He was pressured by the government at every step, trying to put him out o the country. I once had to stand in a Kolkata curt to testify that he was NOT a Maryknoll missioner. I wish he were!

He now has a big operation called Calcutta Rescue which can be seen on the web. Books have been written about him. Dr. Jack is totally frank with any media and so ranks as a maverick among aid organizations. Dr. Jack, still a good friend, has inspired me by his perseverance and creativeness to help the poor at all costs.

Our Maryknoll fraternity inserted itself in the town of Tangail. We all looked for ways to become part of the people. The Deputy Commissioner suggested we do literacy work. I went to Rosulpur. Even though I was poor in speaking and hearing, I could read and write. So I sat as an assistant in a class, helping guys to write correctly. However, it was winter and cold and so few came to class. Our director called it quits. Kalu Mia, a 19 year old student had become a friend. So I asked him if I could work with him in the fields. This poor day laborer interceded for me and taught me how to farm. Really, I owe the past 30 years of my presence in this Rosulpur area to this young man. The Lord finally granted me a presence among the poor it was some 20 years after Fr. Jake said I should stay with Maryknoll. God uses simple means to expand his Kingdom.

A couple of years later Kalu Mia, in confidence, told me that he was getting married in two weeks. “Who is the bride?” “I don’t know; my father is still looking,” replied Kalu. He allowed me to go through the 3 day ceremony with him. Today he has 5 lovely and intelligent girls (alas, no son, a big disappointment for him) one married, another in college. Though a simple hardworking day laborer, he has persisted in raising the living standard of his family.

Kumar Chandra Das, at 12, a Hindu boy, shuffled along the path, always in the squat position. He had muscular dystrophy, which gradually dries up body muscles. His father, Katik, a poor basket maker, was always after me to help him. I decided the best help was education. No one in the family reads or writes. Almost every day for 6 years after work in the fields, I taught him. Kumar had an odd nickname – Bideshi, which means ’foreigner’. Yet he had never been anywhere. He had terrible dyslexia, but he did learn to read and write. His arms were so weak that I had to lift them up to his low table so he could hold the pen. He had a wonderful personality and could engage anyone in a conversation. I had him draw a bit. He sketched a multi-colored house but there were no doors or windows in it. When I showed the drawing to a Sister Frances, an artist, she said, “He’s a happy boy but feels shut in.” How much a drawing can show! Bideshi died at age of about 25 in 1994. The disease finally ate his lungs.

Rahim, 15, was a congenial work companion in the fields. He fell sick so I took him to the hospital. As we sat waiting for admittance, Rahim would say to passers-by, “This is my friend, Doug Bhai, (Bro. Doug).” He knew how to make me feel good. With his joyful banter I wondered who the sick one was. The hospital could do nothing for the abscess on his lungs. So, back home we went. I had to carry him piggy back. As we passed through the school yard, Rahim waved to the kids like a knight on horse back. Who was rich and who was poor? Rahim died a few days later.

His father, Mazum Ali, had no other son to work in his fields. Since I was free I offered to work a year for him in he name of Rahim. He accepted. Daily I worked his fields. They fed me at noon. His daughter Aseda, 1 ½, called me, Abba as I carried her in my arms. I stayed 2 years.

Aleya, Mazum’s eldest daughter, 15, said to me as I ate, “We hear you get a wage from the government.” “Who said?” I retorted. “Oh, we hear.” “No, Aleya, good friends who believe in what I am doing, take care of my food, clothes and a place to stay.” Just at that moment some birds flew down and pecked at the drying rice. “Aleya do you see those birds? Who feeds them?” I was astounded when I heard the Lord’s own words. “Allah feeds them.” So I continued, “Yes, Allah feeds them but takes much better care of those who serve him.” From within the bamboo walls of the house came the voice of her mother, “You are a man of God.” What was the woman saying? She had never even been to Tangail Town, 5 miles away. Yet she understood the message and was not shy to speak out. What deep insights the Lord revealed to me.

During this time a village Islamic revival was formed; they help the people learn and live their faith. Outside teachers were invited in. Some one reported to the leaders that a foreign Christian was working with Mazum. He was called forward. “What does he want but to make you a Christian? If he continues to work with you, we will black list you in the village.” Mazum reported all to me. I could not harm his family. So I left and went to get a bus to tell my fellow Maryknollers. Babu, another Muslim came along. “How’s it going?” “They just put me out of the village,” I explained. “I don’t care what that bunch says; come, work for me.” I couldn’t believe my ears, rejected one minute and accepted the next.

Babu did not need me for long. Kangal (Abdul Hai), a poor lad, a servant of his aunt since he was 4 years old, asked me to join him in work. His uncle Omar Ali was delighted. Kangal had few friends. Once he told me that I was the best friend he ever had. That’s a great feeling, no? But because he was alone in the world, he had learned ways to survive. In the years that followed, he lied to me, stole from me, cheated and broke promises. It was hard for me to take but I figured the Lord sent him as a test. I almost failed and wanted to have no contact with him. But Kalu Mia, my original friend, heard about it and brought us together for reconciliation. I asked myself, “Who is the Christian here?”

My dream was to live in a small village hut among the people. I wondered how to arrange it. Babu’s father, Kashem Ali, a man in his 80s accepted me. I was in my late 50’s. My friends built me a small bamboo house where Kashem allowed me to reside. I have been there since 1986 (Maryknoll called me to do appeals and talks for 4 years. 1989 to 1993.) The family has never taken one penny from me.

Kashem Ali was a very sensitive man, one of the most genuine human beings I have met. One day, he asked me about Jesus’ death. “Do you want to read about it?” So I gave him the Gospel of St. Matthew. When he came to the words “Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani” (My God, my God why have you forsaken me?), he commented, “He is calling Allah.” Elohim and Allah are the same word, one Aramaic and one in Arabic, for God. Kashem, knowing Arabic recognized this. He pointed out a meeting point between Christianity and Islam in Jesus’ words.

Another time he pointed to a Hindu monument. “You see over there. That is a Hindu death memorial. I did not destroy it when I bought their property.” Then he showed me the little mosque in front of him. “I built this here for my family prayer.” Stretching out his arm toward my hut, “And there is the house of a Chrisitan, your house.” He was teaching me that I had to be open to all people, the very message that I had wanted to bring.

And lastly, you will hardly believe this. His family came to my house, “Kashem wants to speak with you.” He was 103 at the time. I went over. Though it was hot, he was all covered with blankets. He looked at me, “I am dying.” I did not know what to say so I muttered, “We all have to die.” He went on, “If I have offended you or harmed you in any way, please forgive me.” I was dumbfounded, Here was a Muslim asking my pardon, not that he ever did anything against me. I have heard many confessions. I wonder if any ever came from so deep in the heart. Kashem was truly a great example of a human person. He died at 105.

For some 14 years I have taught literacy, that is, reading and writing Bangla to women in the village. Mintu Shekh, a store keeper whom I had taught to read, write and do some arithmetic for his accounts, wanted me to teach his 16 year old daughter. I told him no. It was not proper for me. But he kept after me. His daughter found 4 other girls that wanted to learn. So I accepted. But I only taught them right in his house. Of the 5 girls who studied, two were married before we finished, including Mintu’s own daughter. Other ladies, married and single, heard of it and invited me to do the same for them. So here was a male, a foreign male, a foreign Christian male, teaching Muslim ladies. No one could aspire to such a thing. Perhaps I had earned some credibility working in the fields with the men. In those years perhaps some 25 ladies had learned to read a bit. Many did not finish the course. Bro. Frank of Taize reflected that learning the language was not as important as making fiends. I feel privileged to have associated with these hard working and self-sacrificing women. With television in the village now there seems to be less desire for such classes. Globalization is affecting everyone.

The kids in the village are a lively group. They are always after me to swing them on my arms. I started that game, when I arrived 30 years ago. Today I am swinging the kids of the kids I swung some 30 years back. Somewhere I must have also shaken hands with a friendly lad. It has become a tradition. Kids will run some 50 yards to shake my hand and then go back to play. In the school yard, I am mobbed by little hands eager for contact. On other days, they play Jenga Blocks or with Legos, building on the dirt floor of my hut. I am grandpa among them. O, yeah. I must confess that every now and then a few over-spirited lads will throw dirt clods at my house. I have learned to ignore them. How will God use all this contact? Who knows?

Brother Frank is one of 5/6 Taize Brothers in Bangladesh. I have never met such a group of Chrisitians, dedicated and creative men, especially helping students and the handicapped. Six years ago Bro. Frank asked me to be spiritual guide for l‘Arche Bangladesh. “Once a month,” he said, “You will sit and share your faith with the assistants (Staff).” L’Arche has grown today to 3 houses, 2 male and 1 female, containing 22, mostly homeless, mentally handicapped Core members, from age 10-22. This care is a Christian sign of how Jesus, how we respect all peoples. Needless to say, this section of Society in poor Bangladesh is either hidden or pushed aside. I am happy to witness such Christian values along with the dedicated assistants who are giving their lives for l’Arch Core members.

Over 25 years ago I met Dr. Edric Baker, a New Zealander He was burning with fire to help the poor, medically and spiritually. Settling in the fading forest lands of Bangladesh at a small clinic, he has organized the poor to help the poor. Gathering local persons, he trains them in medical practices and pays them on a local wage scale, to help to their brothers and sisters. Muslims, Christians, and local tribal people pray and work together as a team. Persons healed in the process sometimes stay on to help. With a staff of over 70 persons, Dr. Baker has reached out to serve some 1500 diabetics, showing them they have a life to live. TB, a scourge, has also felt the outreach of the Kailakuri Health Care Projects (KHCP), as they call themselves. As mentioned, a great number of the staff are former patients. When I saw this I felt, “This is where funds given to must be spent.” And again when I saw Dr. Edric in need of a secretary to do his writings, I mused, “Doug put your mouth (pen) where your money goes.” So, I help the doctor, now 65, on duty 24/7. I see his dedicated energy being sapped away and he is desperately looking for some good doctor to come forth. The Lord knows there are those who would answer such a call, difficult as it is.

So lots of dynamic persons have floated by, drifted along and accompanied me these 80 lived/ 50 mission years. I am made of them all. While I have tried to help some, most of them took me by the hand and led me where I wanted to go, with the Lord’s kindly grace. 25 years ago I wrote that the Hound of Heaven was always trodding after me. Perhaps this last 25 years the dog (God spelled backwards) has been trodding at my side.

My biggest battle is still within me. I want to become an integral Christian, one who follows Jesus instinctively. Ha-ha. What a desire. I? I still have to reason my way in some situations to committing myself to following Jesus. Other times I weasel word my self out of accepting the responsibility. In my heart I love Jesus. Most of you do not know that my confirmation name is Peter. I have felt a great attraction to him. I am ready to leap in with Jesus, but when conditions get tough, I whimper out. Fear barges in and up goes the barrier. Oh, I peek to see what is happening and I do creep back asking for acceptance. And so the story goes on and on until one day some one will come and bind me and lead me where I would rather not go. Lord, give me the courage and the humility to accept the inevitable. –Douglas F. Venne, MM Volume 50, No.1

 

To our American donors who previously sent money via Father Doug, please note that donations should now be sent to the PSDI (IIRD North America) address given below:

 

 

Communications may be sent:

 

Email: edricbaker@gmail.com

Postal:

Dr, Edric Baker

P.O. Box Pirgacha

Madhupur Dist Tangail, 1996

Bangladesh