April 2007

First Nation Ministries, Inc.

P.O. Box 30055 Portland, OR 97294

Phone: (503) 408-2391 Fax: (503) 256-8560

Issue 6; Visits No. 16, 17, 18

November 2007

Dear Teammates,

What a wonderful year this has been in our labors together winning Indians to Jesus. I marvel at God’s great faithfulness providing open doors, supplies, equipment, people, and finances to get the job done. He fulfills His promise, “Faithful is He who calleth you who also will do it.” Praise His holy name! At this time we have made 21 visits to the reservations of the West. This newsletter brings our reporting up to date through Visit 18. There never seems to be enough hours in the day, but we are getting caught up. Thank you for your patience.

How we wish each of you could be along on a visit to the most needy mission field for which we have to answer for. Here at home in our own back yard the Indian people sit in darkness. This was their land; we took it by force. The reservations have been little more than prison camps. Our efforts to make white men out of them have failed. They are not farmers or business men. The efforts to establish them as such have failed as evidenced by the closed pencil factories, rug factories, sugar refineries, and other endeavors.

First Nation Ministries’ goal is focused on showing our love and care, and winning their lost souls to Christ. We minister to their bodies that we might minister to their souls. Wonderful change comes about in the earthly part of their being when they meet the Master face to face and are saved. They then become part of God’s righteous people who are never forsaken or begging bread. God’s promise is true.

Our work, as has always been, is open to all Christians that care for First Americans. Our records, activities, and finances are not hidden or secret. We stand up under inspection; there is nothing to hide. We value your prayers and support! Your participation is invited. We are working on ways to get more of you teammates along on visits to the reservations. Our hearts are encouraged. One church has taken on the project of a Christmas gift for every child at the Celilo Village. Another husband-wife team has asked to head up a gift for every adult there. A businessman will see that every family has a turkey. Are you interested in being involved? Give us a call at the office (503) 408-2391. We thank you from the depth of our hearts and pray God to bless you real good.

Your old missionary brother;

Don Cline

P.S. I am delighted at the words of appreciation for the poetry I have shared. Let me do it again. I have added the last four lines to bring comfort at funerals.

THE FUNERAL

recorded by Hank Williams

writer unknown

I was walking in Savannah past a church decayed and dim,

When slowly through the window came a plaintive funeral hymn.

And my sympathy awakened and a wonder quickly grew,

‘Till I found myself envir’ed in a little colored pew.

Out front a colored couple sat in sorrow nearly wild,

On the altar was a casket, and in the casket was a child.

I could picture him while livin’, curly hair, protruding lips,

I’d seen perhaps a thousand in my hurried southern trips.

Rose a sad, old colored preacher from his little wooden desk,

With a manner sort of awkward and countenance grotesque.

The simplicity and shrewdness in his Ethiopian face

Showed the wisdom and ignorance of a crushed, undying race.

And he said, “Now don’t be weepin’ for this pretty bit of clay,

For the little boy who lived there has done gone and run away.

He was doin’ very finely and he ‘ppreciates your love,

But his sho-‘nough Father wanted him in that big house up above.

The Lord didn’t give you that baby, by no hundred thousand miles,

He just think you need some sunshine and He lent it for awhile.

And He let you keep and love it ‘till your hearts were bigger grown,

And these silver tears you’re sheddin’ now is just interest on the loan.

Just think, my poor, dear mourners, creepin’ along on sorrow’s way,

What a blessed picnic this here baby got today.

Your good fathers and good mothers crowd the little fellow round,

In the angel’s tender garden of the big plantation ground.

And his eyes they brightly sparkle at the pretty things he viewed,

But a tear came, and he whispered, “I want my parents, too.”

But, then the angel’s chief musicians teach that little boy a song,

Says if only they be faithful, they’ll soon be comin’ ‘long.

So my poor detached mourners, let your hearts with Jesus rest,

And don’t go to criticizin’ the One what knows the best.

He has give us many comforts, He’s got the right to take away,

To the Lord be praise in glory, forever, let us pray.

So we now who mourn find victory in our risen Lord,

And strength, help, joy, and comfort in the promise of His word.

Though tears may fall and hearts do ache, our souls shall loudly sing,

“Jesus lives! The grave has no victory, death has no sting!”