Big Blessing in a Small Package

     One Sunday afternoon I was feeling restless and took Jaren for a walk down the street in the opposite direction from usual to see the house advertised for rent on a telephone pole notice.
     “Can we see Nala?” he asked about a neighborhood cat.  
     “The owners moved out and took all the cats with them,” I said. “We walked by there a couple of times since and Nala wasn't there. We can check, though.”

     After seeing the large but rather worn down and gloomy rental house and speculating on its rate ($4,500 per month?), we continued on to see two houses being constructed further down. At what used to be Nala's house, we saw a gray striped tabby—large, clean, and well groomed—standing out front. (Nala was a slender blue-eyed Siamese.) I said, Meow. Jaren said, Meow. And the cat ran toward us crying, Meow.

     “Bend down and he'll come,” I said.

     Jaren squatted and the cat approached, rubbed against him, walked past me, accepted our pets, and laid down on the sidewalk, exposing its underside. “That mean he really trusts us. That's a very vulnerable position,” I said.

     Ten minutes into our time with the cat, Jaren began looking toward the house.

     “Hi, Jaren,” a female voice called from within.

     “Hi Miss Talbot,” said Jaren.

     It turned out the occupant was an elementary school substitute teacher who'd filled in at Jaren's class a couple times. Her family moved into the house about a year ago. Her son Alfred was Jaren's classmate and he came out to play for awhile with Jaren. But then he had to go back in, so we continued down the street and the cat followed us at a trot. Miss Talbot had told us she didn't know the cat's name; the cat adopted them; the cat started coming around right after they moved in. I told Jaren it was probably the previous owner's since they had more than twenty rescued cats, and they probably couldn't find him when they left. The cat was male, so he wandered around versus a female that would stay home.

     On our way back from seeing the houses being built, we pet the cat by the Talbot's house again. Alfred came out to play and another neighborhood kid—a bit older—dropped by to hang out. This large boy said his mother named the cat Midnight and hated it because it left footprints on their car. After he left and Alfred went back in, we headed home.

     A couple weeks later, we went to visit Midnight and Alfred came out to play with Jaren. Since we couldn't stay long I suggested Jaren exchange phone numbers to arrange a play date. It took awhile, but Alfred finally ran out with a phone number and Jaren gave him ours the next day at school.

     Two weeks went by and Alfred twice wasn't home when Jaren called. Finally Miss Talbot dropped him off for a couple hours of play on a weekend and they had a nice time together.

     At first I felt so blessed that we had a loving, friendly neighborhood cat to play with, knowing how rare it is for a cat to be so friendly with strangers. I still feel that way. But I also feel so blessed that Jaren finally has a neighborhood friend to play with—just as I had several when growing up.

     From a simple walk expecting nothing much (it was mere curiosity and restlessness and a gentle prompting that led me to go) such great blessings. Praise God! 

Braden's continued Growth Pains

     Has your child ever told you F.U.? Mine has. I'm not proud of it. It wasn't to my face, but shouted outside our rental unit so that the whole neighborhood could here. I chuckled, bemused.
     Deanne wondered at my reaction.
     I said, “What am I supposed to do? Slug him in the face? This is the way he vents. He doesn't have friends to discuss things with so this is how he releases the pressure when he can't take it anymore—he acts up or blows up at us. It's normal for a kid his age. Beats doing drugs or getting someone pregnant.”
     I'd sent him outside to walk up and down the street because he'd already lost it when I berated him for his socks on the floor that had been there for three days and then again for not picking them up after I told him to. True, I lost it myself first thing he got home from school and I scolded him about his sloppy room for the thousandth time, but his belligerent sassy talk—“Why are you in such a bad mood today?”—was rude, disrespectful, and uncalled for, thus, I wanted him out of the house for an extended blow-off-steam time out.

     But I didn't let his shouting Fuck you to me stand as if nothing had happened because then he'd do it again and again. So as he walked by the house on his loop around, I stopped him and said, “I'm this close to pulling you from your job” (work pressures were a big part of his blow out—he's excited and terrified about his growing independence), my thumb and forefinger held an inch apart. “When you get back, you tell me how you're going to rectify what just happened. Work is nothing. Nothing! It's a privilege, not a right. Everything starts at home. You know that.”

     He got home an hour-and-a-half later and snuck into his room. I, already in bed by my usual early bedtime, called him and asked, “Well?”

     “Sorry Dad,” he said and sounded sincere enough.

     “That's it? What did I ask you to do?”

     “I don't know what you expect me to say!” He snapped, aggressive and snappy.

     “Alright, no job. I'll call your boss and let him know tomorrow. You can work as much as you want after you leave home—for the rest of your life. It's too much for you now with school. Maybe by next year things will change and we'll let you reapply. Go to bed.”

     He muttered under his breath, slammed things about, and settled down awhile later.

     Deanne and I hashed it out whether it was the best thing to do or not. I said let's pray about it and discuss it tomorrow because I'm too tired.

     By morning, I had a possible word from God. Braden had messed up his application form by miswriting his social security number. (Duh!) I'd checked and signed his initial permission form, which was fine, but while rewriting the info. on his official application, he wrote a “3” instead of a “2.” When Human Resources filed his withholding info. with Social Security, etc., his application got kicked back by Homeland Security, so he had to go in person to the employer's head office to get it fixed within nine days. I thought he should fix his mess up regardless of whether he'd continue to work or not, else, where'd be the lesson? Also, God possibly planted in me the notion of mercy. Braden doesn't deserve another chance. But neither do I for all the sins I've committed and recommitted against God. If I'm merciful with Braden, perhaps God will be merciful with me? (Does that make me selfish? I also like Braden out of the house being productive on weekends. We're also thinking there might possibly be a future career connected with this employer since Braden loves cooking and is fairly good at it...)

    So I told Braden, “Though you don't deserve it, I feel God might be calling me to be merciful. Do you still want your job?”

     “Yes,” he said.

     “Then go get your stuff fixed tomorrow and if you show a change of heart—no more blow outs—there's a chance we'll let you work—no promises—on a day-to-day basis. Any more blow-outs, and you're out.”

     “Yes, Dad.”

     “Anything else?”

     “Thank you for letting me keep my job.”

     “By the way,” I told him a little later, “since you didn't come up with anything like I asked, you get to do all chores until further notice.”

Perspective—Part II

     The people at a church we've been visiting for the past month or so have been so warm and welcoming—it's been such a blessing.

     Pene has virtually no social activity outside of family, church, and school (where she's a member of the cross-country team and orchestra), so I asked her during summer vacation if she wanted to invite friends over for dinner and a sleep-over and she said, Yes. She has good, close friends at school that she hangs out with but neither of the two she invited seemed interested or came over. Bummer!

     So when a female doctor at the church we're attending asked if Braden and Pene could join the youth group (including her daughter) ice skating, sharing dinner at a restaurant, and sleeping over at her house, we were thrilled and honored as we aren't really part of the church yet, especially since everything would be gratis—the church would cover the costs. Braden couldn't go due to a prior JROTC commitment, but it was perfect because Pene loves skating, is still getting to know the youth (four girls for this event), and needs these types of stretching experiences outside her comfort zone as most everything social she's done in recent years has been with long-time friends or at least with Braden at her side, which is a switch from her early years as a toddler/kid when she made friends readily, even at parks just playing on the same playground set (and I'd like to see more of that outgoing friendliness in her again).

     We were a bit concerned that she might not feel comfortable with the sleep over at a strange house with almost-strangers, but by the time the group finished dinner and skating and we called to see if she wished to stay or come home, she asked Deanne, “Can I spend the night?”—this during the drive over to the house. The doctor reported to us at church the next morning that the girls had gotten along fine and her daughter said, “Pene's not at all quiet,” meaning once she felt comfortable, her shyness melted and she talked plenty.

     Compare all these wonderful, real, and personal blessings to the presidential politics saturating the news.  In all probability, Donald or Hillary will be the next president. Are these really the best two candidates our vast, diverse country has to offer? No doubt they're well known celebrities, but does that make them the best qualified? And resumes' aside, what about the all-important intangibles? I think Americans want and deserve a forthright and trustworthy president. Perhaps I'm being idealistic, but I could name a dozen people (as I bet you could) who'd better fit the bill because of truly honest, decent, and irreproachable characters, with unimpeachable integrities, who would always put the good of the populace first and set aside personal feelings or gain, politics, big money donors, and powerful lobbyists.

     Alas, our country's ruling class continues to devalue the populace, it seems to me. What has it done to end gun violence, end ceaseless wars, fix Social Security and Medicaid, rebalance income inequality and the budget, enact meaningful campaign finance reform, eliminate poverty and homelessness (come on, we're the wealthiest country in the world's history), ensure affordable health care and housing for all, and restrengthen and expand the middle class? Not much it seems, not in decades. What has it been doing all these years? That's why I have zero hope for this world.

     But I do have complete hope and trust in God and his kingdom, for he has always come through for me without fail. The next president may enact changes that have slight, occasional effects on my life, good or bad, while God always has touched my life in huge, over-sized positive ways, day by day, hour by hour, and minute by minute, saving my life (I have serious health conditions), granting me peace through trials, teaching me patience and perseverance, and bestowing countless blessings on me. For that and all things of His world, I am eternally grateful and hopeful.

A Date with Penelope

     A pastor once remarked that Dad has the important job of making his teen daughter feel attractive, loved, and special, which can help prevent promiscuity. Penelope, now age thirteen, has shown zero signs of boy interest, nonetheless, I do believe that my relationship with her will bear greatly on her future romances, and I do want her to know that I find her beautiful (she is, breathtakingly so), and that I love and cherish her. She's good company (when she tries, otherwise she can be quiet and withdrawn—just her personality), and has been a fine, cooperative, obedient, self-motivated, and helpful child (without being told), so when I felt called to take her out on a dinner date, just her and me, it was with eager, unclouded joy.

     I had her choose the restaurant (“Something you want, not what you think I want”) and she chose Korean food, so we went to Manoa Marketplace where two quiet, comfortable, and affordable places are available, the fancier one of which turned out to be closed.

     I told her after we ordered, "Mom and I see and appreciate your good behavior and helpfulness and this is our thank you for that. We notice, too, how when we ask you to do something, you does it without complaint. We appreciate that a lot.”

     She laughed and nodded.

     “Why are you laughing?” I asked, smiling.

     “No reason,” she said.

     “I know there's a reason. I think we both know why...”

     We both laughed deep, which got our date off to a fine start. (FYI: The boys had been at it again that afternoon, for the umpteenth time, bickering, grumping, and disobeying over the simplest “Go outside and get some exercise” request, while she hadn't.)

     Even minutes before our dinner date departure, I was struggling with a health trial so I prayed for God to heal me well enough to go, if that was his will. He did. Yet I wasn't sure how my health would hold out, even as we sat waiting for the food, but half-way through the meal I felt fine. “I'm glad we came,” I said.

     She nodded. “Me, too.”

     She ordered a meat jun (regular size with four side dishes selected from an array of choices) and I ordered the barbecue chicken/kal bi combo, and upon receiving our meals we divvied up the contents—entrees and sides—so we each got a bit of everything. “Mom and I always do this,” I told her.

     “On a date, you wipe your mouth like this,” I said, demonstrating with my napkin.

     She did so, then licked some remaining dipping sauce she'd missed.

     “Don't lick your lips on a date,” I said. “The guy will get the wrong idea.”

     She laughed. “Yes Dad.”

     At the end of the meal as we prepared to leave, I said, “Let's rest a little before going. After all, we're paying for the atmosphere, too.”

     She nodded.
     “About now,” I said after a breather, “I'd take off my shoes, put my feet in Mom's lap, and she'd give me a foot massage. Want to try?”

     She smiled. “I don't know.”

     “I'm just kidding, we don't do that. I can dream, too, right?” I'd asked her to tell me a dream.

     “Literal or figurative?” she asked.

     “Either.”

     She said she'd like to move to the Mainland for college, buy a house, and raise some sheep. And it would be somewhere that snowed.

     “Sheep may have to be brought indoors in snow. Do you know?”

     “No,” she said.

     “Would you want your place to get snow? Or be in a state that gets snow in the mountains but not in the suburbs?”

     “I hadn't thought of it.”

     After we got home, she thanked me for taking her out to dinner, then headed in. I got my shoes off, opened the door, and went in and said, “Pene, on a date, you're not supposed to dig out and leave the guy behind like dirty laundry. You're supposed to wait and walk together. What's going to happen if you do that on a date?”

     “He'll feel hurt?” She was giggling.

     “Yeah. And don't expect him to call you again.”

     We exchanged hugs and next day I left her a note thanking her for her fine company, wondering if it was a bit overboard. But no, I felt the Lord's hand in it all.

Serving God Willingly—Finally!

     I love serving God when it's doing stuff I enjoy—attending church, visiting relatives or friends at care homes, spending time with family, mailing thoughtful gifts or letters to loved ones, etc.

     But I've hated serving God in a way that I didn't even realize was serving him: by confronting and/or convicting (in a heart-felt sense) unscrupulous auto mechanics.

     Unpleasant experiences with unscrupulous auto mechanics have happened too many times for me to want to recall—it really stresses me out. Why would anyone want to do that? They should just quit if they feel ripping off customers is the only way they can make a reasonable profit. (Same's true for any profession.) Twice this occurred at the hands of fellow Christians from the same church, too! Talk about disappointing. No wonder the profession is in such low repute among the public.

     But the thing God showed me in the midst of another botched simple repair (worn brake pads) is that by confronting a mechanic and insisting on a proper repair, I am effectively serving God, for not everyone is knowledgeable enough about cars to recognize a botched repair. And not everyone who recognizes “something's wrong” has the strength to confront a perpetrator. Poor repair service or out-and-out sabotage—it happens, I saw one mechanic loosen the bolts on my car's valve cover that caused oil to leak out—this for a simple oil change; another knocked out my car's wheel alignment, causing the car to drift leftward; another shaved the insulation off sections of spark plug wires (causing sparks to arc to the engine block), covered them with plastic tape and locking plastic ties, and blamed it on rats; another added bubbles in the brake lines causing highly deficient braking even as the brake pedal traveled flush to the floor—could cause expensive damages or even injury or death in an accident. And if I don't speak up about such things, the perpetrator will have no incentive to change and thus other innocent victims who can ill afford it will suffer or perhaps even worse.

     Speaking up about wrong doing or confronting a wrong doer is never easy. I can be like Moses or Job when it comes to that—a very reluctant servant. But if I don't speak up who will? I've only newly discovered that God knows that I have the strength to confront or convict (in the Godly sense) such individuals and that he places me in such positions for his good purposes. And that I should be joyful about it. Which I only recently tried.

     This last time was with an older mechanic in his 60's. After he corrected the deficiency, he thrice apologized and everything about the car seemed to function well. Perhaps more significantly, when I first brought my car in, it was the only one at the shop—a slow day. I picked it up late that day (still the only car), noticed the deficiency immediately, brought it back, told the mechanic about it, showed him the problem during a test drive, and left the car for him to correct overnight. He called early the next morning and said it was done. When I picked it up late that afternoon, the shop had multiple cars and customers—a busy day. God may have blessed him for having done right (in the end) by me. I choose to believe so.

     And I was able to handle the whole unpleasant episode with a lot less heart-thumping stress than in the past, knowing I was doing the right thing and serving God and others, perhaps the mechanic most of all.

     Historically, I never went back to unscrupulous mechanics—best to avoid further trouble. And by avoiding, I felt I was convicting them that I knew what they'd done. (They returned to me a clearly botched repair, I went elsewhere to have it fixed.)

     But this last one? Perhaps I'll give him another chance. We'll see how God leads...

Strength in Weakness

     For fun, I rented the Sean Connery James Bond movie Thunderball. I always thought of him as the best Bond—looks, accent, demeanor (grabs and eats a grape in the midst of a tense cat-and-mouse scene), playfulness (fools with dangerous gadgets and gets chided by Q; flirts with the secretary), and droll delivery of lines (“She's just dead”—as if from over-dancing instead of a gun shot wound).

     Over dinner that night I said: “One scene in this movie they'd never, ever do in a current Bond film is have him cry for help. Remember that scene?”

     “On the stretching machine?” Pene said, excited.

     “Yeah, he's calling, 'Help! Help!' They'd never do that now. Why?”

     “He'd have a gadget to get him out,” said Braden.

     “Maybe, but why?”

     They made some guesses and eventually Deanne said it makes him look weak.

     “Yeah, that's the thing,” I said. “Today, producers give short-shrift to audiences. They think if they see the hero calling for help that'll signify weakness. But is calling for help really weak?”

     “No,” the kids said, reading my mind.

     “Why?” I asked.

     There was a long pause. “Because he needs help?” Pene suggested.

     “Yes. So what is calling for help when you need help a sign of?”

     “That he's in trouble,” said Deanne.

     “But what does that say about his character?”

     “That he doesn't want to die?” said Jaren.

     “So calling for help when you could die—what does that say about him?”

     “That he's willing to ask for help to save his own life.”

     “Does it take a strong or weak person to do that?”

     “Strong.”

     “Right! It's a sign of strength, not weakness to ask for help when you need it. If you're feeling bad like you're going to pass out or something, it's strength to tell someone or go see a doctor. Same's true if you're feeling lonely or depressed. Everyone needs help once in awhile. What happens when someone needs help but doesn't ask for help?”

     “He could die.”

     “Is that strength? No, it's dumb and weak because nothing is weaker than death.”

     I mulled it over for awhile and came up with something else.  “Apostle Paul said, 'When I'm weak, I'm strong.' What did he mean?”

     “He asked for help?” said Pene.

     “Yes, but why?”

     There was a pause. “Because he was dying,” said Braden.

     “Yes, but why did almost dying make him strong?” There was no answer so I continued. “When I'm strong, I think, 'I'm tough. I can do anything. I can handle this. I don't need God.' But when I'm weak, I depend on God totally. And we all depend on God all the time. Sometimes it's only when we're weak that we realize it.

     “If we go to God with a humble heart, we can defeat anything. I think that's what Paul meant, that when he's weak, he gets all his strength from God. And nothing is stronger than God.”

     Pene seemed the least convinced of all so before bedtime I asked her, “Who are the three strongest people in the Bible?”

     A long pause ensued. “Jesus, David, and...Esther?” she said.

     I nodded after the first two but said, “I would have picked Samson, but I love Esther too. She's very strong. Now, did they ever ask for help?”

     “Yes?”

     “Who did they ask for help?”

     “God.”

     “Why?”

     “Because he's strong.”

     “Yes, but why would he help them just because he's strong?”

     “Because he loves them,” she said, voice catching in her throat.

     “That's right.”

     Later, I remembered that Esther asked others for help, too, namely, Mordecai and her husband-king. I couldn't remember all the details so I reread the relevant passages with Pene to rediscover that Esther had asked her Uncle Mordecai and the Jews to fast and pray for her when she went in unsummoned to king Xerxes and asked King Xerxes to save the Jews from Evil Haman's plot to have them exterminated. Pene even remembered that the Jewish festival Purim commemorates these events.
     It was an important lesson that I wanted my kids to always remember—there's no shame in asking for help—that came from an improbable James Bond source.

Pene

     I'm concerned about Pene mainly because she's been sooo easy for us—a quick, attentive learner and a wonderful self-starter who is diligent, bright, obedient, and non-demanding. She takes the initiative to fold common laundry, put away dishes form the dish rack, and wipe counters without being told. She earns straight-As, possesses neat hand-writing, and got her first B (in History) last winter but brought it up to A the following semester, earning A for the year. I told her, Grades at this stage don't really matter—no one looks at them for college admissions, main thing is what's in your head. But a fellow student last year made her cry (only after she got home) when he teased her in class that “Pene's going to get her first B” over some minor mistake she made in class. I've told her more than once that she needs to toughen up about such things. Who cares what other people say as long as they don't physically assault or threaten you. Teasing's a part of growing up.

     She's emotional—cried when reading Marley and Me, Sadako and the Thousand Cranes, The Book Thief, and numerous others. Got weepy at my Aunt Bea's funeral (so Deanne claimed) even before it started and even though she barely knew her. I suppose it was just the somber mood, seeing everyone together, and anticipating what was coming that overwhelmed her. Tender or sharp words from Deanne or me makes her cry. She cried when Deanne shared the facts of life and also when she shared our values of saving oneself for marriage. She cried when I explained to her about family dysfunctions among relatives and compared those to happy family relations and laid out her choices for herself in the future. She cried when I told her to Keep your mouth shut when Mom and I are arguing/disagreeing about something; it's not your place to act as family referee.

     I'm glad Deanne and I brought her along to our anniversary dinner to a fancy-ish restaurant and left the boys, who'd been acting up way too often, at home. (At the anniversary dinner she was considerate and ordered the least expensive item on the menu.) She's had the least about of alone-time with us, especially at going-out meals, because she's the middle child. Braden had us to himself before Pene came along and Jaren the same when he was too young to have Braden babysit along with Pene. Jaren also got special outings when the two older ones had gone out to church activities together. It may not have been fair for Pene, though we've tried to make her feel special, too.

     She asked me to cut her hair (we donated eleven inches of it to Locks of Love) and layer it in back. I did so, but her hair stuck up in a duck's tail half way up her head, ear-level. I thought it was due to her wearing a ponytail or braid for so long, but even after showering and drying, it still stuck out ridiculous. She didn't cry or say it looked awful. “I'm fine,” she said, though she looked stormy-day glum.

     I knew it looked awful but realized we can't add hair back. Her hair had changed since six years ago when I'd last cut it. It'd become stiffer since. When the length was long, the weight held it down. Now that it was short, it stood up. I couldn't have known that. If we took her to a hair dresser to fix it, all they could do is cut more. I said, I'm not content, can I cut that smallish patch that is sticking out? It's same as Mom's was when I cut hers way shorter and she screamed at me to cut this off and I did and it came out one of the best cuts she's ever had.

     Pene said okay so I cut it out and it looked just fine. She even got compliments from classmates.

     Here's my concern: She's thirteen. She still hasn't received Christ as her Lord as far as we can tell. She's still not quite comfortable in her own skin. When it's time for her to start separating from us in a few short years. What will happen then?

     It's been said that boys are far easier than girls during the separation process. When she starts questioning and revolting from all that we are and she's been—that's what I'm concerned about. How far astray will she go and will she ever return?

     But I entrust to God that all be well.

     Confession: Pene is growing more and more into her womanhood and as she takes after Deanne, is growing ever more beautiful and sexy. I've told Deanne to speak with her of modesty around the house and Pene's been more or less discrete. Nonetheless, her blossoming is tough for me to behold—sweet, yet fraught with fears. Mainly, I fear for her safety from outsiders, but also from myself. I pray that if the Devil ever tempts me to do anything that will harm or ruin her to indulge some sick lustful desire in me unknown, that God would kill me first. I even prayed this decades ago before I got married, the notion repulses me so. This doesn't make me holy, it makes me human and in desperate need of God's help to prevent any such tragedy from ever happening. I think most guys, truth be told, feel this same way.

Church Visitations

     Over the past month we've been visiting nearby churches because I felt called to and not because we're looking for a new church. I've always known wherever you live, there are wonderful churches nearby and this was confirmed—a real comfort.

     We hadn't been able to travel much this past year so these visitations were like mini-trips/vacations for us, for when we travel I mainly like to see how other people live. Seeing how other people worship reveals a part of that...

     It's been a refreshing (and sometimes stressful) eye-opener. For the first times ever, I've attended Baptist, Episcopal, and Catholic Sunday, and a Jewish Shabbat services. They were all very modern (rockin' music with drums, ukulele, guitars, and choir in Catholic mass—who knew?) and welcoming. The Jewish service was difficult to follow because so much of what was sung was in Hebrew with unfamiliar lyrics and melodies and because it had no preached or explanatory messages at all. It even had a communion-like partaking of bread and wine, which we passed on because we had no idea what it meant. (Per Internet research, wine represents “joy” and bread “abundance/provision.” If we'd known that then, we probably would have participated.) I found the Catholic mass stressful because of the church's huge laden history (good and bad) but nothing weirded me out because everything seemed somewhat familiar. With the exception a Baptist church full of seniors (average age 72?), attendance at all the churches and synagogue had sadly fallen from their heydays judging by the largely empty pews and vast campuses.  Next to the Baptist church, the Catholic church was the most filled of all, mostly with young adults. I wondered if the popularity of Pope Francis had anything to do with that or his openness to change with its contemporary/informal style. (Deanne attended a Catholic school for awhile and said mass there was a lot more traditional and formal.)

     There is at least one more church we'd like to visit which has ties to our church. Another church with ties that we visited had a beautiful pipe organ and a guest musician that played with four mallets one of the biggest marimbas I've ever seen (about 8' long?).  Jaren loved the Sunday school and asked even before we left, “Can we come back again?” The people there were so welcoming and we felt so comfortable, blessed, and secure. Braden was on a church trip at the time, so he and Pene didn't get to meet youth their ages (Pene sat with us through service—she didn't feel comfortable venturing out to Sunday school, which was broken out by age groups, without Braden—she'll learn.)

     The institutions' websites were good in providing general backgrounds and a feel for what the church/synagogue might be like, but none prepared us for the big-hearted welcomes, generous and real, that we felt when we walked in through the doors and I said, “We're visiting, is it alright if we sit in?” At the sister church in particular, they treated us like family and even tried to lure us in by describing a youth mission trip next year to the U.S. Mainland (to either the East Coast or Midwest) that they hope to raise enough funds for to make it free for all participants.

     So if you're not a regular church-goer, I highly recommend visiting the half-dozen or so nearby religious institutions to sit-in their services—just to see. It's our first times ever and am I ever glad we did!

Vacation Bible School, Part II

     Braden this year served as a missionary at an outer-island vacation bible school. (Last year we went as a family; he stayed the entire week, the rest of us stayed two nights.) And boy did the experience mature him!

     Last year, he acted up prior to the trip—probably due to repressed anxiety.  This year, he was calm and prepared and it was mostly Deanne that got antsy over whether he had packed everything. (I love leaving him to do it all—that's how he'll learn, by forgetting something important. It's how I learned the importance of a toothbrush when I forgot mine for a Boy Scouts summer camp and got my first cavity as a result.)

     And upon returning, he spoke with calm clarity—very unusual for him! (I've for years mimicked his mumbling, hurried indecipherable gibberish in countless attempts to get him to slow down and speak clearly in sentences that make sense. He had the rushed habit of speaking before thinking—with garbled thoughts, ungrammatical sentences, and lazy pidgin (“gonna” for “going to”, “dah” for “the”, “dey” for “they”, “gotta” for “got to”, etc.) I emphasized the need to be able to switch pidgin on and off, that I don't care how he speaks with friends, but with us, he must speak coherently so that we don't have to strain to understand or constantly ask for clarification.

     Upon the group's return, our pastor told Braden to prepare a short speech for Sunday service describing his missionary experience. The speech's script—less than 600 words—was to be submitted for her perusal first. I didn't ask to examine his draft, which he finished the morning following his return. But I did advise to make it personal, not “I enjoyed myself with the kids”, but rather, “I got close to Jeremy, a shy boy or a naughty or active boy. He was having trouble fitting in...or whatever.” Or don't say, “I matured a lot” but rather, “I normally don't feel comfortable speaking in public, but during blah blah blah, I blah blah blah and realized...whatever. In other words, specific names and specific examples—those will make it real and alive.”

     He nodded and said, Yes, Dad.

     I didn't see him do any rewrites, so he either got it right or didn't care enough to change it, I concluded.

     On Sunday he shared first (of three missionaries), speaking slowly, clearly (enough), and confidently—even injecting some humor (about our pastor) that elicited spontaneous laughter—even as he laughed while joking. He also had three concrete examples of learning and growing experiences. Projected images (arranged by our Associate Pastor) of a child Braden played with appeared on the back wall as he spoke, enhancing his presentation. I was pleasantly surprised by Braden's performance, gratified for his opportunity, and hopeful for his future. (So often I've wondered, Will he ever get there? Will it be in time? Now, he seems on track. Physically, he's matured rapidly while his emotions and intellect slowly catch up in sudden spurts—same as me when I was a kid. In fact, he's probably ahead of where I was at his age in many respects, though expectations are far higher these days.)

     I later asked Braden if our pastor changed anything of his draft and he said, No. His writing, then, also improved. A lot! I chock it all up to the expanding experience and doing God's work for a needy population—mostly second generation Hawaii residents, kids whose parents are from the South Pacific, many of whom struggle to get by.

     Our pastor shared that in coming years, our church hopes to train the local older kids to conduct the vacation bible school themselves. (At which point, perhaps, our church could then start another vacation bible school elsewhere.)

God's Blessings

     God's blessings in all our lives are profound, untold. On a recent workout run, I noticed an open house sign, stopped by on my way home, and asked the realtor for a fact sheet that showed asking price, year built, square footage, etc. She mentioned that the downstairs unit had a tenant that paid XX hundred dollars per month. The asking price was a bit less than a million dollars.
     I was familiar with the house and had been in the downstairs unit before during a yard sale. The tenant's children have been highly visible in our neighborhood so I knew them too.
     Now the downstairs unit is nothing special, and neither is the house or lot. The interior of the unit couldn't be much larger than ours and the amenities are comparable (though our unit comes with a two-car carport and nice, level driveway; theirs has a single stall in a shared carport that opens street-side. Plus our unit is over twenty years younger than theirs.) What shocked me was the monthly rental figure she gave me which was over double ours!
     Our landlord has raised rent on us a bit over the past few years, well within our affordability range. If he doubled our rent, I told Deanne, we'd have to look for another place to stay. He does appreciate our stability and reliability (we are good, tidy, quiet tenants who help to keep the grounds clean) and doesn't want to lose us. More important, he's got more than enough money and knows we can use it far more (and better) than he can, since he receives a generous pension and has other rental properties that he draws rent from and all his adult kids are well set. I suspect our comparatively simple, humble lifestyle inspired him to downsize his, which must have given him more joy and satisfaction with the ample abundance that he already enjoyed. So our tenancy has been win-win, I suppose.

     I've been having health trials again, recently, though they now seem to be improving, so I'm hopeful and try to remain positive. I live day-to-day with good days and tougher days. One of the better days it dawned on me again (as it does every so often) the greatest blessing of all: existence—why there should even be anything at all. God created it all, obviously (to me), and for that we can and should be eternally grateful. Nothing can compare to the profound magnificence of existence, so reveling it it's mysterious glory, we can all take heart that what we at times stress most about—health, job, finances, kids, or relationships—are all blessings just for existing. For if none of these existed, would we?
     Only God knows all and can answer all the whats, whys, hows, and whos and regardless of the answers, he can be trusted for his generosity and goodness as Creator of all. Compared to all he gives us, then, what we give him and what he asks of us are small potatoes. For his yoke is easy to bear and his burden is light.

Sensitive Jaren, Part II

     After the kids' last day of school, I'm lying in bed exhausted and hear Jaren in the living room crying. It's not an angry or complaining cry—I don't hear Braden's or Pene's voice or movements accompanying his—he's just upset about something.

     “Jaren? Why are you crying?” I call.

     “I don't want to leave third grade,” he says.

     This is a surprise. He's never mentioned it before. “Come here.” He comes in, still crying more than a whimper, less than a bawl. “Stand here where I can see you.” His eyes aren't flooded with tears but he is upset. “Why don't you want to move on to fourth grade?”

     “I don't know. It's hard to explain.”

     “Did you look at your report card?” I saw the packet on the table, but hadn't yet examined its contents.

     “Yes.”

     “And you did all right?”

     “Yes.”

     “Did your teacher say anything?”

     “No.”

     “Are you afraid of fourth grade or the teachers for some reason?”

     No, he says. We talk a bit about the fourth grade teachers, both of whom had been at the school for years with steady-if-not-spectacular reputations. Our two older kids had liked them fine.

     “I just want to stay in third grade,” he says.

     I explain that last year, we tried to have him held back (because he's a late born and will always be the youngest in his school relative to his classmates and he could have benefited from the extra year to mature) but the principal wouldn't have it. “I know he won't allow it again this year and I don't want that for you anyway,” I say. “I'll discuss it with Mom, but you're ready to move on. You'll do fine in fourth grade.” I think a bit more and ask, “Is it because you like your teacher?”

     “All the teachers,” he says, which triggers more crying.

     So we talk about his teachers. “Do you want a hug?” He nods, climbs up, and puts his arm around me and head beside mine. I cradle him and stroke his head and back. He feels better and so do I. “Mom's home,” I say in response to loud knocks and he runs to open the door for her.

     He cries while explaining to Deanne, then plays his plastic recorder, stopping often in the middle of “Supercalifrajalisticexpialadotious” to cry. It's his way of coping—distraction.

     During dinner, when it's Jaren's turn to share, I ask him how his day went and he says he attended the fifth grade graduation and awards ceremony. I ask, “Is that where you earned your certificate" (that's taped to the living room wall)? He affirms and says it's for his involvement with a club at school. He describes the rest of his day and ends by saying, I noticed most of the boys cried, but not many girls.

     “The fifth grade boys or third grade boys?” I ask.

     “Third grade.”

     “When? At graduation?”

     “No, in class.”

     “When did they start crying?”

     “One of the boys started from the morning.”

     “Why?”

     “Because he didn't want to leave third grade.” Thus it became apparent that Jaren's crying was sympathetic—in response to the other(s) crying in his class. It didn't seem likely to me that he'd cry simply for the reason he stated had it not been imprinted in his head by someone else's example. He's quick on the uptake, and quick to imitate, sometimes for bad (inappropriate language or attitudes), sometimes for good. His ability to empathize is a good thing, I guess, at least for now. (Would that more people had such ability the world would be a better place. Jesus cried over Lazarus' death even though he knew he was going to raise him back to life. I'm not comparing Jaren to Jesus, but sympathetic crying sometimes indicates strength, not fault or weakness. And empathy is a virtue in too short supply these days.)

Initiative

     Wow.

     Allow me to rephrase that: Wow! Braden, now sixteen, for the first time ever did something that needed to be done without being told.

     Granted, he did do things for himself on his own initiative before this but a few days ago while hanging out in the kitchen bored (a favorite visiting place for such times), he grabbed a box of Cheerios and refilled our plastic cereal dispenser! And it wasn't even empty with nothing but a half-inch layer of cereal dust left—it was still a quarter-full!

     I didn't say a word—not because I didn't want to jinx him but because often when I compliment him he acts up. (One child care “expert”—Dr. Spock or John Rosemund—said to compliment sparingly because it takes the bluster out of their sails or makes them uncomfortable so that they have to act up to feel comfortable again. When I was a kid I didn't like my parents taking credit for my positive deed—as if I did it for them—by complimenting me. I did it for myself because I wanted to, same as Braden, I suppose.)

     I wondered if his thoughtful act was a fluke or an unintentional oversight or perhaps something Deanne told him to do a day or two ago?, but then two days later it happened again.

     We have a hamper and laundry basket that we keep in a common area inside. These fill up fast and only empty fully on laundry weekends. The emptied hamper sits inside the emptied basket and only after the hamper fills does the basket sit atop the stuffed hamper. The thing is, the hamper keeps overflowing onto the floor until Deanne or I tells someone to “Fix the hamper.” This assignment goes to whomever is nearest when it happens to be noticed, or Jaren, who has the least chores.

     Well, Braden after bathing this red-letter night, dumped his clothes on the already overflowing hamper; picked up all the clothes, towels, and dish cloths on the floor nearby; stuffed them on top; shoved the contents down tight; then lifted the hamper out of the basket and placed the basket on top. It ended up all just the way we like it, nice and neat, with the hamper and basket backed against the wall. It was remarkable that he did the chore on his own initiative but even more so that he did a fine job of it—no laggard clothes left on the floor, no slanting basket on top, and no sleeves, plant legs, or towels dangling out from between the basket and hamper.

     And I didn't dare breathe a word or even smile or show that I noticed. (If it ain't broke, then don't fix it!—so said one bright dude who wasn't even a child care expert.)

     This was very assuring for me that Braden may be finally “getting it”—that life's not all about him. That living for others is important. That helping out voluntarily feels good. That looking for ways to help and doing them without first seeking approval or recognition is a very big deal. I believe it's why God says to tithe blindly and give without show—because he sees it all and that's enough.

     Praise God!

Perspective

     When I was a youth, my dad was a deliberate decision maker, especially when it came to investing or spending hard earned dollars. He'd stew and mull things over, plan, tentatively decide, change his mind, research, and plan some more until something triggered a decision which would then be final.

     For awhile, it was whether to buy a new VW Rabbit (this in the late 1970's), which would be his first brand new car, or a used low-mileage early 1970's VW, Toyota, or Datsun (i.e. Nissan)—which would be comparable to all his prior automobile purchases: reasonably priced, reliable, and an overall good value. The Rabbit would be over twice the price of a used car, but would it afford twice the value? Probably not. Twice the fun or joy from owning brand new for once? Perhaps. (He didn't say these things but his stressed looks and excitement as he read brochures and Consumer Reports Magazine said it all. He wanted the VW but with Joan in college and Grant and me headed there, could he justify its cost? Probably not.)

     We were watching the excellent Cosmos PBS TV series when astronomer Carl Saga narrated a video showing a child at play on the front lawn of a suburban home when the camera pulled away into the sky, revealing the child's house, then the neighborhood, the city, clouds, lakes, rivers, oceans, continents, the entire globe, the Moon, Mars, asteroids, Venus, all the planets, the Sun, interstellar space, galaxy clusters, more interstellar space, and on and on until the entire universe with its billions and billions of stars were revealed from billions of light years away. At the end of the show we all felt puny and insignificant, as well we might compared to the Universe's unimaginable vastness.

     Dad said with a jocular smile, “You know what? Let's get the Rabbit—can afford!”

     Mom said, “Good, that's the way to say it! You only live once!”

     I, a lifetime penny-pinching saver felt bemused that it took a wonder-inducing science show rather than careful pro/con financial analyses to tilt Dad's decision to what he truly wanted. It was after all an emotional decision.

     For me, I find over an over again that when stressors build, accumulating to almost unbearable levels, that it's usually because I'm too zeroed-in on the itty-bitty details without considering the big picture. Sure Braden may act rude and disrespectful at times, but overall he's a good, responsible, and reliable kid. Sure I may not agree with my boss's priorities and his bossy management style, but overall, I haven't found a better alternative workplace that I'd want to go to at this moment. Sure Deanne and the kids aren't perfect, but neither am I. Yet, we're overall still a loving, respectful, and supportive family. And God has been with us and kind to us with blessings countless and profound.

     The main thing, however, was something I got from writer Pearl Buck's memoir of her pastor father. Though she herself was not a Christian, she did see her father—especially as he approached death—as becoming more and more angelic, even more spirit than human-this as his body faded, ever weaker and more slight. At the end, she said, he was with God, something even she, a nonbeliever, could see.

     Must we wait for death to be with God? I don't think so. He's here always, it's only us who aren't with him. But once I remember, realize, and sense he is with me, and I can and do surrender even my life to him, then the itty-bitty things are less than dust by comparison to the entirety that he is (the “biggest picture”—eternity, existence, love, everything that matters—there is.)

     And he always finds solutions to all our itty-bitty problems—even if it means giving us a healthy dose of repentance, forgiveness, or humility. And that's the best perspective of all!

Sensitive Jaren

     Jaren's friend Ian at school recently got hurt playing soccer during recess and an ambulance was sent for. Jaren wasn't there when it happened but ran across the yard to see if Ian was okay, then ran back to report to the yard monitor the situation.

     The next day at school, Ian wasn't there. Jaren said he was in the hospital.

     I said, That's unusual. He probably needs surgery.

     Jaren made wild guesses as to what it might be (he had a broken elbow once that healed nicely with just a cast) but I said it's impossible to say.

     The next day, Jaren said Ian is still in the hospital.

     I said that it must be he had or is going to have surgery. It must be serious. (Jaren looked concerned.) He'll be fine, I said, kids heal fast. They might need to put in screws until it heals—I don't know how they do it these days.

     The next day Jaren said, Ian is still in the hospital. He has pins in his leg.

     I said, “Yeah, sometimes they use those. They hold them in place like screws. I don't know if they're permanent or they take them out after awhile.” Later that night before bedtime, Jaren was still talking about Ian and his injuries so I asked, “Would you like me to pray for him?” He nodded, so I hugged him close and prayed aloud, “In the name of Jesus, Ian be healed, all well and better with no more injuries or pain. All broken bones, damaged ligaments, nerves, tendons, or anything else be fully healed and recovered. Please comfort Ian and his family, his classmates and teachers and everyone else in school. May he come back to school real soon and be his usual happy, joyful self. In Jesus' name I pray all things. Amen.”

     Even before I concluded, I could tell that Jaren was touched, weeping silently in catching breaths. And as I recited my usual bedtime prayers for him immediately after, he tried to stifle his emotions, but it was obvious (not that I minded—it's how God made him.)

     (Note: I was taught about this “direct” style of healing prayer about a decade ago. Most such prayers are supplications, “Lord, please help heal...” Nothing's wrong with those, they can work just as well, but they're never used in the Bible. All (or virtually all?) healing prayers in the bible are direct—in essence commanding the healing to take place in Jesus' name. I pray healing prayers both ways. I like the direct style because it seems to initiate greater faith on my part—always a good thing, I think.)

     A weekend and a school day later, Ian was finally back in school with two casts on his right leg, walking on crutches. He'll have the casts for four and five weeks each, Jaren said.

     “Did you run over the first thing you saw him?” I asked.

     “No. There was already a crowd of people around him. I talked to him later when I ran into him. The first thing I saw him, though, I was so happy, I almost cried.”

     “That's sweet. Did you tell him you missed him?”

     “No. I told him, 'Welcome back. I hope you're as happy to see us as we're happy to see you.'”

     “That was great and awful nice of you.” Sometimes he says the most grown-up things—things I'd wish I'd thought of myself. “What did he say”

     “He said that he wasn't crying when he got hurt, he was just fussing.”

     “But you saw him crying when you ran over?”
     “Yeah.”

     “Nothing's wrong with crying when you have serious injuries like that. It hurts like anything. Maybe you can invite him over for a sleep-over to cheer him up when he gets better. Would you like that?”

     He nodded.

     Now what did I get myself into?

Dad's Bedtime Prayer

     A few years ago Dad had trouble sleeping—this from a man who throughout his adult life as far back as I can remember slept every night at ten-thirty after watching the local evening news and awoke every morning at six-thirty (a bit later on Saturdays when he didn't have golf and Sundays). His schedule was so steady and his self discipline in hygiene, work, recreation, household and yard chores, and all matters public so predictable and sound, it gave him a “rock-solid steady” reputation, as my childhood friend's father once described him to my naive surprise.
     So when he had trouble sleeping nights for weeks then months, he got quite distressed and sought help from doctors and various sleeping pills, all to little or no avail.
     He talked about his insomnia constantly to the eventual chagrin of relatives as it was apparent he had enough sleep—he dozed while watching TV throughout the day and what did he need more sleep for anyway, it's not like he was working or had important appointments to attend to? He just likely missed his comfortable and predictable bedtime sleep routine and lacked something to get excited about to fill the hours each day instead of fretting over whether he'd get a good sleep that night.
     I'd witnessed to him about my faith, which he received tepidly at best, implying it was fine for me and my family but not him. But I saw a tiny door open in his recent distresses and wrote him a letter sharing among other things a bedtime prayer he could recite aloud that might help and certainly wouldn't hurt. I don't remember the precise contents of the prayer but it was rather lengthy and a part of me hoped he wouldn't call to discuss it (as was his habit after receiving a letter from me) because in a roundabout way his response was always “Thank you; not interested”, which I always found disappointing.
     But surprise surprise, about a month later mom called to say that Dad prayed my prayer a couple weeks and quit but she told him to continue it, it's good for you. it's a good thing to do. So he did every night thereafter.
     Dad came on the line afterwards and confirmed that he did recite it and it helped him relax.
     I was grateful that he had finally received Christ as his Lord and Savior, as it's tough to recite such things without meaning them.
     Twice or thrice since, Dad reiterated gratitude for the prayer and said he recited it every night.
     But I had my doubts. Never had I seen him pray aloud. He had stated many times his lack of belief in any spiritual being. Was he really reading it aloud every night? Or was he just saying that to please me? He never lied, yet it seemed equally out of character for him to pray.
     When we were back in Hilo during New Years, the day of our departure Dad asked for a moment with me. (I dread these meetings; he sometimes uses them to scold me. Though it's always mild and reasonable, it's still tense.) In the living room while we sat, he discussed his and Mom's wishes upon their passings. Regarding the ceremonies, he asked when both their ashes were lowered into the plot beside Grandma's and Grandpa's (his parents) would I recite for him his bedtime prayer that I had given him for the last time?—very touching for a man who is quite unemotional.
     I told him sure, but I can't remember what I wrote. Can you write it out for me?
     He said it doesn't have to be exact, I'm sure you can get the gist of it.
     I said it's been so long, I just wrote whatever came to the top of my head. Please write it out and mail it to me anytime.
     He recited it in its entirety on the spot to my delight and surprise. I said it sounds good, please write it so I won't forget.
     He said he would and a note in his handwriting appeared on my desk later that morning. Here is its contents:

Lord Jesus, please hear my prayer. I recognize that I am a sinner and need you as my savior. Please forgive me my sins as only you can. I want to have the peace, calm, and rest that you can offer. Guide me in your ways, now and always. Amen.

     It's obvious to me that he took out (or forgot?) some of what I had written, but that's great because by doing so, he made it his prayer, not mine.

     I know now, when it's time for me to recite it for him, it's going to be rough going, as I can get very emotional at such times.  But it's the least I can do after all he's done for me throughout my life.

Blessings Big and Small

     Other than when it's my turn to say grace before dinner and bed time prayers with Deanne, I seldom pray aloud. But I did during a recent trip to KMart to return a TV purchased the day before that lacked a remote control and owner's manual (and batteries and packing material, I later discovered). I was not looking forward to waiting in line at Customer Service. Or getting another faulty TV upon exchange. Of being told even then I couldn't get a cash refund since I paid by check. Or having other such unpleasantness arise.
     In truth, I didn't even especially want a TV. Ours—an old 20” Sony Trinitron picture tube type—broke from a power surge that also broke our stereo receiver and our rental unit's refrigerator and washing machine. The latter two the landlord replaced; the reason for the TV purchase was the kids' upcoming winter break when they'll be home alone for over a week—it'll give them an hour or two each day to watch DVDs. (We don't have cable and have no TV reception.)
     Already stressed by the holiday rush, I told Braden I hope and pray it will all go smoothly and we won't have to wait too long at Customer Service or find out no one is there.
     Braden held the TV while we waited two-deep in line at Customer Service. The first in line was returning a twelve pack of Diet Sprites. The cashier kept scanning a coupon and fiddling with the register's keypad, and asked to see the receipt. Then she requested help from a clerk standing nearby who said they had to ask Sally. Five, ten, perhaps fifteen minutes passed. Sally came and told them what to do—the coupon was two-for-one, so they had to refund the twelve pack Pepsi's too, which they did. I was praying silently the while as my ire rose and receded as I battled my all-too-common impatience.
     The next customer wanted a refund to take advantage of a dollar off coupon on a decorative holiday item. Again more coupon scanning, then punching away at a keypad, receipt tie-in, and consultation with the clerk (who stood by observing). The customer said she wanted the item but wanted the refund so she could repurchase it plus four more at the sale price. Aha! A bargain shopper refunding at full price to repurchase at sale price to save an entire dollar! I thought. For ten minutes plus of waiting, she must really need the money...
     Finally, it was our turn and the clerk told us to go straight to Electronics.
     “But my wife called and they said to come here,” I said.
     The cashier said, “Only if you want a refund. Exchanges go straight back there” (with a point toward the back of the store).
     Electronics had one customer ahead of us that took a few minutes. The cashier asked when it was our turn how she could help and upon being told of the missing items asked what we wanted to do.
     I said exchange...unless there's a sale on it from today.
     She said let me check and walked to the bank of TVs displayed. Yes, she said, and reported a price fifteen dollars less than what we'd paid. To get the refund, go back to Customer Service she said, and she initialed our receipt.
     Back we went with TV in hand to wait in a now three-deep line that moved like opihi. Finally a free cashier opened a second register and processed our refund, taking the TV and giving me cash.
     Back at Electronics, I chose a boxed TV from below the display stands and we waited in a one-deep line. The cashier was pleasant and apologized and offered to open the box to ensure its contents were complete, which it was.
     Fifteen dollars for the trip down and time spent waiting? Yeah, it was worth it—I count it a blessing.
     Getting spared from undue stress? I count a huge blessing.
     I told Braden had we not waited in line at Customer Service, I would never have thought to request a refund. Perhaps I wouldn't even have bothered to recheck the price. (The price on the box hadn't changed.)
     I also got to spend time with Braden doing something he does well—keep me calm and grounded in situations I find stressful: anything to do with stores or shopping. We shared a nice enough drive and conversations, me doing most of the talking (since he tends to keep quiet). Not a bad way to spend an afternoon after all. And the TV ended up working fine.