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! 

Molokai Blessings

     Just got back from a four-day trip to the most beautiful of the Hawaiian islands. About four years ago, we'd gone, and the people were super friendly—the most friendly group of locals I'd ever met and Molokai really lived up to its Friendly Isle nickname. Not as much this time, though the island itself was perhaps even more warm and inviting.

     For the first time ever as a parent, I went without an itinerary.  I'm a detailed planner so each day is usually laid out on paper with nearly every waking hour accounted for—the where's, when's, and what's to hit, drives to take, things to see and do, etc. But I wanted to take it easy this go around with no stress, no rush, no set schedules, and so settled for skeletal plans for each day. Can't get lost on Molokai. Just go with the flow and enjoy, was the plan.  Perhaps by my being more open than usual, God blessed our Molokai trip with wonderful surprises:

     Day one: We rented a fishing rod and reel and purchased a seven-foot bamboo pole and went fishing on the state's longest wharf. Last time round there were plenty of small fish, but none bit. This time the fish were plentiful and biting—mostly manini and everyone (except me) caught two or three. Time went by, fun and exciting, and we had nice chats with friendly locals and tourists. Then Jaren said, “I see an eel!” pointing below his feet at a huge head of an emerging moray that was attracted by stray pieces of bait shrimp submerged near the entrance to its lair. “Do you want to catch it?” I asked. “Yes!” he said.

     I'd brought along heavy tackle (20 lb. test line and large sturdy hooks) and had him fetch a thick piece of drift wood nearby—something easy to hold onto while tugging out the muscular eel that can wedge tight in crevices.

     With the hook baited and line secured to the middle of an eighteen inch long stick, he lowered the bait to the hole's opening while crouched on the rock above.

     Almost immediately, out came the eel, jaws agape, which seized the bait, and retracted back quick as a turtle's head into its shell.

     “Hold tight!” I said.

     Jaren fought the tug with steady pressure and out popped the hook, sans eel and bait.

     “I felt him! I had him!” he cried.

     Because there was nary a fight, I knew the eel had taken only the bait, and not the hook.

     I let Braden try next.

     This time the puhi (eel) did not emerge. There were numerous crevices nearby, so Braden laid the bait down near one further out. He got a hit!

     “Hold tight!” I shouted.

     He giggled as with one hand he fought the tug and tried to get a better footing on the downward sloping, uneven rocks.

     Splash! His foot lost hold and his left side slipped down. He caught his balance but the line went slack. Deanne fussed over scrapes on his shin, foot, and hand while he said, “I'm fine,” with don't-baby-me impatience.

     Jaren and the others later tried, each getting two strikes each—one resulting in a bent hook (that eel was tough!) When they ran out of bait shrimp, they used as bait the manini they'd caught. And Jaren discovered two smaller zebra eels in holes nearby. The kids were all so excited that we had to pull them away for lunch with promises that we could return to try again later.

     Day two: After spending time at Mauna Loa Kite Factory gift shop where I finally solved a pyramid puzzle after ten minutes (that “Duh!” people can solve in three—so said the label) and shopping for knick-knacks, we followed the public access road to Kepuhi Beach and had lunch while watching the surfers on the consistently excellent waves. There was a bluff at the beach's far end with a trail that led toward its wind swept and grassy point. Nearer, pebbles framed the sandy shore where a monk seal basked on its belly.

     We'd seen a seal during our prior Molokai trip at Dixie Maru beach, so this was nothing new, but nice nonetheless. We later took a a wide berth around it (as required by law) and made for the bluff which gave a beautiful vantage toward the sandy coast to the south. Northward were worn lava rock shores with a tide pool table and in the distance, a steep, high outcropping—remnants of an ancient lava flow terminus. Most striking of all, mid-distance was a sandy cove set back from the rough Kaiwi channel waters' incessant pounding surf—sheltered at its highest reaches by stands of drought-resistant Keawe—green, rough, and airy. The weather was hot, dry, breezy, and clear. I explained to the kids that this is as beautiful a beach as any on Earth. People spend thousands of dollars to travel to Greece to see a beach that is no more beautiful than this. And what makes it so special is its isolation. There's no paved road here. You have to walk or catch a boat. I'm glad. Too many people will spoil it. (I later researched this hidden gem and learned its Pohakumauliuli Beach name.)

     We spent a few hours on the sand, exploring, and hanging wih the locals. And was I ever glad I'd brought my DSLR camera instead of relying solely on Braden's point-and-shoot.

     Day three: After visiting a couple of old churches (Father Damien's Saint Joseph and Our Mother of Seven Sorrows) and taking peeks inside, we dropped by Murphy's Beach. A friendly, well behaved dog paid us a visit, which the kids loved since we have no pets. After lunch, Jaren in mask and snorkel, and supervising Braden, went to the far end of the beach where it was safest while I stood and watched from a distance. A high school-looking Caucasian girl told me that straight out from where we were were lots of fish by the rocks protruding above the surface—about twenty-five yards out. Her mother with her was friendly, too, and the dog that had visited us now lounged at home beside them.

     When the boys got back soon because of “nothing to see”—I told Braden, who looked bored, to go talk to the two who'd talked to me. “They're friendly. Ask them, What's the dog's name?”

     He hesitated, but went. And stayed talking with them (mostly listening) for the next twenty minutes. Pene, who'd been playing in the sand, joined him after awhile. They discovered the dog didn't belong to them. This socializing with strangers was big for Braden who's chronically shy.

     Then at Halawa Beach—another of the most beautiful beaches in the world, we had both sides all to ourselves. The right side, just off the parking lot at the foot of the steep nearside pali (cliffs) had huge natural boulder breakers worn smooth by the surf and a sandy crescent shore that waves pounded incessant. It was raw, wild, natural, and peaceful.

     To its left, a shallow stream fed from a ribbon falls about a mile up-valley. Across was the second beach lined with coconut trees and salt-resistant thick-leaved foliage. We forded the knee-deep stream and hung out at the flour-soft gray sand beach (all to ourselves) where I lay back, hat over face, to relax, praise God, and enjoy it—the warmth, beauty, isolation, wonderful weather, restored health, natural quiet, kids playing. I had felt apprehensive about going this far, but it had gone very well.

     Jaren picked up various pieces of driftwood to thump a hole in the sand, then tried to knock a fresh coconut down out of a tree (futile). Braded, to my surprise, was able to husk a dried coconut by pounding its end with a stick and peeling. We later brought it back to Oahu to consume and its liquid and flesh were tasty and fresh. He even succeeded, again to my surprise, in knocking down a fresh green coconut using Jaren's long drift wood on his first try.

     On our way back to our car, there was a mermaid-like lady lounging in the stream upon a low wall of slippery rocks. She looked so content, legs dangling beneath the surface, dark workout suit wet like a seal's coat. She later stripped to a bikini, submerged to her neck, and paddled about, reminding me of an otter.

     Day four: With not much planned except a Macadamia Nut Farm tour after lunch (Braden's idea), we followed a sign to a store with furniture and knick-knacks. Outside, a friendly dog greeted us. The store owner explained that it was Angel the school dog. While browsing the interesting merchandise, Jaren asked if we could give money to a cat sanctuary advertised on a donation box. I suggested maybe we could visit it? The owner said it was across the gravel parking lot and that the owner was in the back and could give us a tour.

     We looked from outside the chain link fence into the enclosure that housed over a score of beautiful, healthy, and clean cats of multiple varieties, sizes, and colors walking freely among low wooden box-like apartment shelters, the entire area covered by a low wire mesh ceiling. We asked to enter and were ushering in and told that the cats were previously owned, none were former strays, and thus, very friendly. One named Bat Man was blind, but friendly (until he got tired, in which case he batted a claw at you), and one named Mr. Black jumped into our laps and couldn't get enough thouch and affection. He reminded me of my two childhood cats that like him, were black except for a single spot of white. His and Inky's were on their throats, Tomo's was on his thigh. We all loved the cats and Jaren requested to stay another hour as he tantalized his favorites with a chase toy. We left a small donation but felt bad about its minuteness when the owner mentioned veterinary bills were their number one cost. His example was Mr. Black's who had cost $2,500 to chaperone to Maui, pay for surgery and several night's observation at the clinic, and chaperone back. When I was kid my parents made clear that pets were pets and not humans and we weren't rich enough to pay for exorbitant pet bills. I explained this to our kids and that every family is different; I was happy that they saved Mr. Black, but that we would not have likely paid such big bills for a pet—not when college bills, retirement, and other expenses were looming so near and large.

     It'd been a wonderful experience to go traveling sans schedule. Deanne appreciated not having to rush to prepare our lunches each morning before departure and that we could sleep in, relax, or do nothing. The kids were even super-excited to visit the rather small public library.  Just our sort of vacation—slow, casual, and easy. We even returned to Honolulu better refreshed than when we'd left!

Work Therapy

     Ample studies suggest that going back to work as soon as possible after certain illnesses and injuries speeds recovery—opposite conventional wisdom that total bed rest cures fastest. About five years ago, after a serious illness, while I was still underweight and feeling weak and insecure about my health, I got asked again and again by my doctor, “When are you going back to work?”—I guess because he knew of the curative powers of work.

     This past year, work has sometimes been a downer—largely because of my health issues and extra low office morale due to passed-down stress from above and temporary office moves into storage warehouse-type settings that kept getting extended, missed deadlines, more problems with infrastructure, an insecure boss, etc. I prayed, “Please restore my joy for work,” because I've nearly always enjoyed my job, the same that I've held with the state these past 26 years.

     My friend Norm, a burnt-out civil engineer now starting afresh as a nurse after draining his 401K for nursing school, finds his new job stressful and demanding, but rewarding—yet still views it as “just a job.” His son David, fresh out of college and working his first job tells Norm how he hates his work, to which Norm replies, “That's why it's called work. If it was something you enjoyed, you'd have to pay them to do it.” Norm disagrees with me that perhaps David just hasn't yet found his passion. He thinks passion has nothing to do with it as a job is still a job.

     Perhaps I've been fortunate. Or perhaps my home life is sufficiently pedestrian that I often look forward to work after weekends. I've found myself “losing myself” in my work, so immersed in the intricate job details do I get, trying to puzzle out the big picture while yet being very meticulous and precise with every word, number, phrase, tone, and impression, since I do a fair amount of report composition—of a very creative nature—while sticking to the facts, and offering opinions, suggestions, and recommendations to improve the organization in a management consultant-type capacity. I find it fun, worthwhile, and very challenging.

     Except this past year when there was a drought of this fun work and only occasional piddling rote work with low meaning (i.e. chances to improve the organization). We even landed a sucker job that we went through the motions to prepare for and complete. Then, something happened. A novel approach came to mind. We got the approvals to proceed without problem and went for it. Work became fun again.

     But a dead end resulted by following that lead. Nothing of what we'd expected surfaced. So back we went to same ol' same ol.'

     But then a different way of looking at the same dead end info. came to mind, and sure enough, major implications surfaced requiring follow-up, further reviews and analyses, discussions, and so forth—fun, fun, fun! Writing up the report and backing it up with iron clad facts was even funner and more exciting (well, in a challenging, must-think-very-deeply-and-clearly sort of way).

     So my job has always suited my personality. People who see what we do sometimes say, “I don't know how you can stare at those numbers all day. I'd go crazy!” to which I nod, smile, or laugh, knowing I'd never be able to do what they do all day long—dealing with the public, going to endless unproductive meetings, giving lectures, or whatever.

     Oh yeah, my health has been steadily improving especially since I've started enjoying my job again—another answered prayer. Praise God for all his blessings big and small!

Appreciative Attitude

     I don't have many prophesies, but I did have one the other day. Jaren had two events coming up, a Thursday scout meeting (with a rare fun/educational activity) and a Saturday afternoon birthday party. We'd already planned that I'd take him to the latter, so I asked Deanne to take him to the former.

     She groaned and went into a huff.

     I said, We've been putting him off for awhile. I think he deserves it (meaning we had skipped scout camps and meetings because we were too tired or busy or didn't feel up to it.)

     She pursed her lips.

     “Will you take him?”

     She didn't answer.

     “How's about I take him and you can go to the picnic so I don't have to?”  (We'd planned for her to go shopping while Jaren and I were at the picnic since she enjoys shopping with the kids and Braden needed new clothes for his upcoming job.)

     “I'll take him,” she said, not pleased.

     Shortly after, while brushing my teeth, it came to me so I told her when I'd finished, “I'm not sure if this is a prophesy or not. Maybe it's just me. But it might be from God. One day you're going to look back at all this and realize these were the best years of your life—these past fifteen or twenty years or so. You'll think, That was great, taking Jaren and Pene around. Seeing them grow. Doing those things. Why didn't I enjoy it more then? That can change—your attitude. It's your choice.

     “Same's true with me. Whether at work, with family, or at church. Everything's the same. They're all blessings. I don't always feel that way, though. But I do want to try to enjoy them more while they last. Sighing and groaning's not going to help.”

     About Branden's new job—it's a temporary job at an established eatery. He'll have a probationary period with potential option to renew. They'll train him in most front-end (customer service) assignments with possible back-end kitchen training if he continues. He can choose to work only on weekends and the location is close enough to bus to and from school and home. His grades will have to hold or we'll pull him out, I told him. But because he's not much into academics and struggles to make As and Bs in mid-level difficulty classes, the traditional four-year college plan may not be his best option. He loves cooking, so who knows?—maybe he'll become a cook or restaurant manager one day in, say, ten to fifteen years? (The current manager appears to be in his late fifties to early sixties.) We feel it's a great opportunity for him to learn responsibility and gain confidence from holding and earning pay in a real job.

     Or he could learn that he hates manual work, customer service, or the food industry and that white-collar jobs are the way to go and thus begin giving his all in academics for the first time ever.

     Either way, we're hopeful he'll learn something (high quality standards, diligence, taking initiative, etc.) from the job. Oh yeah, best of all, he sought the job on his own initiative. (I did tell him months earlier we'd be open to him getting a job with weekend hours that didn't interfere with his studies.)

Hit and Run

     Recently, work sends me out of town. After dropping Deanne off at the bus stop, I fill gas, then head for the arterial that connects to H1 Freeway. We'd left early at 5:40m, my usual time, so it is still dark.

     A red light. Trying to make a right turn. Traffic already heavy—though not bumper to bumper—and no way to safely enter the steady flow. After the briefest of pauses, oncoming cars begin making left turns onto the street I desire to enter; they must have a left-turn green arrow that gives them the right of way. A short pause, then Thunk!—my car jiggles, having been struck from behind by a vehicle—a white pick-up, a quick look in my rear-view mirror reveals. I swear and a moment later the light turns green so I ease forward while checking to see if the truck will follow so we can investigate damages and exchange information. It does. An immediate right onto the street—truck still following—and another right into a convenience store parking lot, and Zoom!—the truck whizzes off down the road. I peer out the window to catch its license plate but it's too dim and distant—just a blur blending into darkness.

     I put the car's gear into Park and get out, expecting to see a bashed-in trunk or dented in bumper. Around the back fender there's...nothing, no damages, not even a scratch. (Well there are lots of pre-existing scratches, but no new ones). Inside the trunk beneath the carpet liner, there's only virgin metal; no creases or crinkles. No muffler damage or leaking fluids outside underneath, either. Good enough. On to work.

     Upon arrival, it's well lighted. Only then do I notice upon closer inspection that the passenger side rear fender, just beneath the natural seam, is distended for half its length by a quarter inch. Above the seam is metal, below is rubberized plastic. Has the lower portion just been knocked out of place? It appears so. Gentle kicks and nudges don't drop it into place, so I leave it for later.

     After I get home, two long screw drivers inserted behind, lift the flange up and ease it back into its slot. Praise God!—as good as new! (Or, at least it's the same as before.)

     I later share with Deanne and the kids that I suspect the driver doesn't have long for this world. My car was motionless. Why did he hit me? Then, rather than do the right thing and check for damages, he digs out and in essence says, “The heck with you—catch me if you can!”

     “Did he have a license? Was that his car? Was it stolen?” I ask rhetorically. “To have such a lack of concern or respect for fellow man—what does that say about him?” Everyone's quiet and attentive. “I don't think his future looks too bright.”

     Then I share with them what they should do if they ever bump into anyone: stop somewhere safe, inspect for damages, and follow the instructions on the back of the insurance card. It says, “Don't admit fault,” but if it's clearly your fault, you should apologize,” I say.

     “As things turned out, I probably would have let things go. But I would have certainly asked, 'What happened? How'd you hit me?'”

     I tell Deanne during our evening walk, “In Hilo, this would never have happened. You'd probably recognize the truck. Or someone would stop and say, 'I know that guy, he lives at so and so.' That's the thing about small towns—everyone knows everyone.”

     Honolulu is getting to be ever bigger, ever more cosmopolitan, and ever more mainland-like. There are still lots of considerate people with plenty of aloha—at the job site, in stores, and at the library—but more and more we're seeing that every-man-for-himself attitude and behavior. It's sad and disturbing.

More Travails

     Braden has shown some real improvements of late. After finally earning his first Boy Scout merit badge (Citizenship in the Community—see my prior Braden essay, regarding), which I had to exert tremendous force of will, persuasion, and persistence to get him to do for his own good, he's now well on his way, through mainly his own exertions, to earning his second (Citizenship in the Nation) merit badge. Good for him! He wrote a letter to a congressman, is reading a daily on-line newspaper front page, and just visited our state capitol, which covers all the hands-on requirements, praise God.

     Also the other day, Deanne called me at work to say the water main servicing Jaren's school broke, so she would be picking him up. When I got home and prepared for my workout run, she fretted, “What if Braden and Pene panic when they see the empty school?”

     “They won't panic!” I said. But I ran by the school to make sure Pene wasn't waiting there alone for Braden, which would be less than safe. She wasn't there, and just as I got home, she arrived and said, “Braden went to get Jaren. He told me to go home first.” It was pouring that day so it was thoughtful of him to let Pene come home first, since she still suffered a sore throat from the day before. Not long after, Braden appeared and said, “Hi, Dad.”

     “You came straight home when you saw the empty school?” I asked.

     “Yeah.”

     “Good,” I said, and explained about Mom picking up Jaren due to the water main break (they would all have seen the blocked off road, Department of Water Supply service trucks and workers, and gushing water along the street). “Good job letting Pene come home first,” I added.

     But toward the end of dinner that night, he asked about joining a technology-related JROTC workshop/class to be held twice a week from 5:00 – 8:00 Tuesdays and Thursdays and I immediately said No, you need to focus on academics. He started breathing fast and heavy, stiff in his seat, ready to explode.

     I don't tolerate blow-outs at the dinner table (food and eating should be pleasant and not associated with angry shouting) so I dismissed him to another room.

     Yet while doing the dishes minutes later, he barked and groused at Deanne, snapped at Jaren, then later bitched at me, so I said, “Get your umbrella and walk up and down the street. Don't come back in until after eight,” meaning after his walk, he could sit in the garage, similar to past disciplines.

     He went to his room for who knows what?, barked more at Deanne, then left the house in a huff.

     After my bath, Deanne, exasperated, said, “What about his homework?”

     I said, “Whatever! I don't care...”, then, after reconsidering, said, “Tell him to do it in the garage if you like...”

     She disappeared for awhile, came back, and said, “He's not on the street; he took his bus pass with him.”

     “I don't care,” I said.

     “How can you say that?”

     “Because I don't.” An hour and a half passed while I read to Jaren and Pene. I knew Braden was too chicken or timid to do anything scary-ass foolish and I wasn't about to let Deanne go drive around looking for him. The worst he'd do, I reasoned, was get on a circle-island bus route and come back late. Or go to the police and grouse to them about us. “He'll learn,” I figured and prayed that God would convict him.

     Deanne, still upset, suggested we give him more leeway with activities.

     I explained, “This is another of his dumb, sounds-like-fun activities that has no bearing on anything, just like rifle squad and Rangers—it's not his thing. What he needs is friends to hang out with on weekends. I'd let him stay out to ten at night or later.” (I'd reviewed a parental advice book after reading to the kids and it said by age thirteen, the author's son was allowed to stay out that late on weekends with friends, which sounded reasonable for sixteen-year-old Braden to me.) “Or if he showed me a course syllabus that stated, '80% of graduates of this class enter the military at a higher level classification...' Or said, 'There's this girl I like; I want to spend more time with her...' Or, 'My buddies are going, can I hang out with them?; I want to invite one over to the house...' I'd be more inclined to reconsider, but as things stand, no, he's got to man-up to his responsibilities and learn to take disappointment like a man, not a six-year old. His reaction was way disproportionate. In two years, I want him out of here if he continues this way. I'm preparing him for that day. That's my goal. And he's running out of time fast.”

     “But don't you think-.”

     “No! I'm not going to argue with you about it—that's not going to help. Pray for God's peace. That's all we can do right now.” And I told her as I prepared for bed at 8:00 not to shout at him when he got home.

     The knocks on the door came at 8:30. I opened the door and he looked calm and restored.

     “Where were you?” I asked.

     “Walking up and down the street.”

     “No,” mumbled Deanne from the living room.

     “Which street?”

     He named streets nearby, but not ours.

     “Okay,” I said in rising pitch to signal disgust, and let him in.

     I later told Deanne I was going to give him a pass on this one and next morning told him, “Next time I tell you walk up and down the street I mean our street. If you want to go anywhere else, you have to tell us. We have to know your whereabouts at all times.”

     “Yes, Dad,” he said.

     I realize that occasional fits from teens are normal and healthy. Mostly I thank God for keeping me fairly calm through the whole ordeal even as a part of me was edging toward panic, which would have been dumb and unproductive.

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.

Braden

     Braden just got back from a one-week trip to the East Coast with our church's youth group to attend an international conference. He showed great maturity leading up to it, not acting up as he used to before big exciting events. And after returning home mid-afternoon, jet lagged by six hours and sleep-deprived, he didn't just eat, bathe, and sleep as I'd expected, but restfully unpacked and stuffed his laundry in the laundry machine without being told and spent time talking with us, catching us up with all the people, activities, impressions, food, and day-to-day happenings at the conference. Since we'd had zero contact with him during the week, this was a big deal for us. Had it been worth it? Had he learned anything or grown? What had been interesting or new? He then worked on finishing his five-minute presentation to be given at church the following morning.

     A week later he was up to his usual albeit occasional antics by acting demanding, belligerent, and petulant when we said, No, You can't join rifle squad, you have to focus on academics (always a struggle for him). If you can get straight As for two quarters, then we may reconsider. Of course he acted like we were unreasonable tyrants and of course we acted like he was an unappreciative, entitled spoiled brat.

     Yet in the month leading up to his trip, he thrice volunteered at the Humane Society and caught the bus to and fro—this in part as a requirement for his first merit badge ever. I had to force him to get to it though—see my prior Breaking Strongholds essay posted on 2/29/16 regarding (I'd been a boy scout myself—it's easy, you go through the pamphlet and do each requirement step-by-step) because he's had a mental block against it and couldn't explain why. He'd said everyone treats him well and there's no abuse, and he's “Just not interested,” which I know is a lie because he is completely vested with every ounce of his being to defy, delay, deny, and make lame excuses to not start, do, or complete each requirement and then talk with an adult leader to review and sign off that he's finished and this has been going on for years and I won't bail him out now by talking to a leader for him because it's very important that he learn to fight for or at least ask for or insist on what he wants or needs or deserves to get ahead in Boy Scouts and in life and that good things don't come easy or fall in one's lap “just because” and that his “I don't care; it's not important” attitude won't serve him well in the future—not in college, the military, or the real world once he leaves home, possibly at age eighteen if he doesn't get his act together by showing respect, appreciation, obedience to all our reasonable requests and diligence with his school, home, scouting, and other responsibilities.

     More recently, I noticed on my pay stub a recruitment notice for election precinct officials. I called the contact number listed and Hallelujah, Braden qualified. Training consisted of a mass lecture in a crowded school cafeteria. Then primary election day, he walked over to the polling station at his former elementary school at 5:20 a.m. and worked the sign-in book, cross-checking registered voters listed to ID's and passing out ballots, and he got home before 7:00 p.m.

     It'd been an excellent experience since he loves politics (and controversy, in general, same as me as a young adult) and will get mailed an $85 check in a few weeks.

     We have recently instituted a No Politics at the Dinner Table rule to curb spoiled meals due to hot, angry, unending debates—not good for family felicity or digestion. Yet the other night when it was his turn to share, Braden said, “I heard that Trump-.”

     “No politics at the dinner table,” I said in stern warning.

     “It's not, he owns a hotel in Hawaii.”

     “Okay, one week of doing all chores!” I said for his rank defiance.

     He gave me belligerent lip and attitude and earned himself another week. He knows that anything to do with Trump is political and we both know that he just wanted to rile things up inappropriately, as he has all too often in the past.

     I've told him, “Talk politics with friends. They love to,” but I doubt he has, because as far as we can tell, he doesn't have any, hasn't pursued any, or doesn't especially want any. And this has been true for years. I'd clued him in on how to spot potential friends (sitting alone at lunch, looking bored, etc.) or how to approach, and what to say, but he apparently hasn't tried as if he's, “Just not interested.” I'm very concerned about this and have prayed for a Godly friend in his life. Sometimes I think he's just too picky, as if no one is loyal, bright, intellectual, Godly, mature, or accepting enough for him (not that he scores high points on any of these marks) or perhaps he feels he has insufficient to contribute? In short, social interactions on a friendship level has not been his strong suit, a point he needs to work on. Yet try as I might to create opportunities for him, I don't see how I could possibly force it or help it any further. He's fine with his siblings so I don't think it's a matter of social skills set or technique. I can only conclude that for now he'd rather be alone. Even when people approach him, I'd bet he must eventually give them cold shoulders. Please help pray for him if you will and for me, too, as to what I should do. Mahalo.

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!

Photogenic Kids

     When I was a kid, not many of my classmates looked great in our low-tech middle school year book with card stock cover. Our awkward, uncomfortable, and insecure personalities somehow showed even in the low-definition photocopier-quality likenesses printed on plain paper pages secured with staples down the center spine.

     How times have changed!

     The most salient feature in my daughter's expensive, glossy, hard-cover year book overstuffed with too many pages of teeny-tiny color photos galore are the number of photogenic kids with bright eyes and smiles, and tons of confident show-case personalities—this despite their being not especially handsome or pretty by objective standards, even looking less mature than many of my peers looked at their ages, probably in part because we got a lot more sun than kids these days do.

     I marveled as I leafed through that there were dozens of great photos that featured a cute smile, laughing eyes, a suggestive smirk, a mysteriously averted gaze, or other flattering aspect. The camera must love these kids, I thought.

     Whereas our yearbook from the 1970s contained perhaps only five or so “nice” shots that featured a pasted-on smile, hair coiffed perfectly, an attractive and complementary shirt or blouse. Technology aside, why the huge change in the photographic subjects? I eventually realized that back in my time, the ones who looked great were either the outcasts or misfits or the overly self-absorbed who probably spent way too much time in front of a mirror, primping and experimenting with different poses and smiles. My mom made me do it one year in elementary school before picture-taking because she'd gotten fed-up with my awful likenesses from years past. After forty minutes of back-and-forth between her coaching and bathroom mirror practice with different smiles, I finally got one that satisfied her and she said, “Perfect. Memorize that and use it tomorrow.” It was slightly open-mouthed with raised brows, stretched back lips, upright posture, and slightly raised chin. Mom was so super-pleased with the school photo that year, I use the same basic smile to this day.

     Too many kids these days are armed with smart phones, so it stands to reason that many such kids would get way too much practice taking selfies, posting them on social media, and forwarding them to friends. No wonder they're so photogenic, they're practicing all the time with instant feedback technology. (Whereas back in my time, film cameras took days, weeks, or months to see how things turned out. Mirrors obviously gave instant feedback but weren't the same. Smiling before a camera could be daunting as film was expensive and you only had one shot, so it had to be good. The main thing was don't blink—even though you knew the flash was going to sting your eyes and you'd see sparkles on hazy black for the next minute or two. Today's super light-sensitive digital cameras by contrast require hardly a flash at all. No wonder we had such wooden smiles.)

     By the way, our family does not possess a smart phone and my kids and I aren't especially photogenic. They do alright, though, similar to most of their peers and we're satisfied. I feel I take way better photos of them than the school does and have never purchased school formal photos. We have purchased group class photos on occasion (mostly the younger years when they were soo cute.)

Mumbling

     Pene has been in the habit for years now of mumbling or addressing her comments at the dinner table to only one party so no one else can hear clearly what she says. I find these side conversations annoying so I ask her to speak up so everyone can hear. Even upon repeating, she'll sometimes speak at a voice barely audible, much less decipherable, so I'll say, “I still can't hear you,” at which point she shouts in irritation.

     In short, we're trying to teach her to be assertive and cheerful. The second part's easy for her as it's in her nature, but not combined with the first—it's one of her few glaring weaknesses in social skills and maturity.

     We've felt called to visit other churches this past month and at one of them, a girl but a year Pene's senior greeted us prior to Sunday service at the snack lanai and boy was she ever impressive! She spoke with clear, friendly, assertive confidence, calm and articulate. Her posture, eye contact, and body language were composed, age-appropriate, and sensible. There aren't too many peers to Pene that I'd like her to imitate, but she was one of them when it comes to speaking, at least.  When speaking with her, I spoke more smoothly and with far less stumbles and awkwardness than usual. (I tend to imitate those around me.)

     I later asked Pene if she was impressed by her and she smiled and said, Yes! So she can recognize what we're after.

     Pene's voice is naturally muted, but that can be overcome as whenever she's excited with her brothers, she speaks with ample authority. I think it's more a matter of wanting to appear coy, sophisticated, or unobtrusive, and not boorish, uncouth, or attention-seeking. Though she doesn't say any of this, her hesitant body language sometimes suggests it.

     I recently read a humorous nonfiction book in which the writer says that guys love bitches—strong, assertive, and self-contained types, with strong personalities—and flee from clingy, needy, pliant, wilty girls, indecisive and fearful, whose world revolves around the guy, and who are wholly dependent on him for all their self-image needs. The writer had been the latter—unsuccessful in love—until something clicked and she became the former—with guys flocking to her for attention.

     Well, obviously it's not either/or—there's a long, unclearly defined spectrum. I, too, was more so the latter type until I came to know and trust and surrender my all to God, at which point I became more so the former type—though you don't have to be a bitch or an ass to be confident, secure, and strong, or be totally spineless or codependent to lack adequate self-confidence or strength.

     Pene's got lots of time and it's understandable that an adolescent will often lack self-composure (I was a shaky leaf at her age with certain peers, though mumbling was never an issue for me). At home at least, she can do better. I suppose her strength, like mine, is in one-on-one interactions, not large, free-for-all groups.  And we love her just as well for that.

Klepper?

     About the only time I heard the term “klepper” was in the 1970s sitcom “All in the Family” when mother Edith—the most admirable character in the show—thought she might be an incorrigible thief because she left a store without paying for merchandise (until she much later recalled why it had happened accidentally).

     Not so Jaren. Thrice he's stolen and consumed more than his fair share of allotted treats. We keep a strict household when it comes to these—no 24 hours all-you-can-eat goodies buffet. We, as parents, dole out the goodies as we see fit.

     First time we found out about his thefts came when we discovered candy wrappers under the sofa some time after Halloween. Judging by the number of wrappers, it must have been going on for some time as it's not like him to binge. He lied about it (“I don't know where they came from”), then confessed and got a week's time out for it. (The older kids, we're certain, wouldn't lie about such a thing—and would certainly do a better job at disposing the evidence if they did lie.)

     Next time Deanne noticed the contents of a liter bottle of soda mysteriously disappearing, its level dropping lower and lower every so often. He lied about it then confessed (sooner than the last time) and got a few days time out for it.

     Then came the discovery of cherry pits beneath the sofa—too many to have been eaten all at one go or even just a few gos. He lied about it (“I forgot”), then confessed and got a week of time out for it.

     He's honest about money, so there's no theft-creep as far as we can tell. The other weekend at the market he wanted to play a grab-a-toy crane game for fifty cents. He didn't have money so I said I'd pay but he needed to reimburse me half. He said okay. Of course he didn't get the toy (a small cushion) and of course I forgot all about it. That afternoon, he approached me and gave me the quarter “For the game, remember?” So for him, it's mainly food impulse control when we're not present. It's, “I want I want I want...I take!” And lying about it when confronted. Or at potlucks if we're not watching, he'll take far too many sweets.

     All our kids' weights are at fifty percentile while their heights are fifty to seventy-five percentile so their builds are fine. We just feel it's important to establish healthy eating habits now—portion controls, limited snacks, etc.—that will hopefully continue throughout their lives. Braden and Pene are doing fine now after struggling in fits and starts. It's Jaren's turn to learn, too. In general, he's fine, seldom grousing when we tell him “No more” or “That's enough.” But sneaking around snitching food in his secret corner behind the couch and lying about it? No way! Which reminds me: I also prohibited him from sitting there as a hopefully preventive measure. (Good thing he hasn't started flushing evidence down the toilet or dumping them down the storm drain outside. He's been sneaky, but thankfully not wily. Perhaps a part of him wants to get caught to test if we care enough to act? If so, no problem, we'll act alright—no Homer or Marge Simpson laissez-faire when it comes to discipline for us. When they get caught acting out, they get strict, real consequences that make them suffer, not the rest of us. Once he realizes that he gets plenty (way more than me, say, a seldom snacker who only takes micro bite-size portions at that) and that cheatin' ain't worth it, he'll stop. Or suffer the unending consequences while still at home.)

     I realize that once they leave home, they could boomerang the other way and binge on junk food unending. So be it. It'll be their choice. But not on my watch, I tell Deanne. While we're responsible, we have to do our parts.

Waikiki Overnighter

     For the first time ever, Deanne and I left the kids alone at home overnight—this to celebrate our wedding anniversary alone in a room in Waikiki. Since Braden is age sixteen and quite responsible with the younger ones, we felt it would work out fine. And it did, praise God!

     As an adventure (and reenactment of prior family stays), we parked near our old apartment by Kapahulu, caught a bus, and checked into our hotel. It was an older walk-up along a quiet side street off Kuhio Avenue. The rustic room was nothing fancy, but the king size bed was comfortable with lots of pillows and cushions, everything was neat and clean, and we appreciated the fully stocked kitchenette that came with the free upgrade that the front desk clerk didn't even mention to us. We feel more comfortable anyway in humble and affordable accommodations, so it matched our needs and desires perfectly.

     After we unwinded a bit, we held hands and headed on foot to scope out a possible place for dinner. After that (it looked good), because it was early, we headed for the Moana Surf Rider Hotel for some music beneath the banyan tree. A talented guy sang and played guitar—a welcome relief from the traffic noise and incessant crowds. We took an unassuming perch upon a low wall like other locals 'cause we didn't want to order anything. The nearby beach was packed, so we passed hanging out there for the sunset. Instead, we headed back to the Aqua Hotel eatery we had earlier investigated and had yummy pizza and a shared beer pool-side in a very peaceful nook. Our table was sheltered beneath a large canvass umbrella which was a good thing 'cause toward the end of dinner it started to pour. It was kind-of fun, like an additional adventure, to lean forward to avoid the heavy streams of water cascading off the umbrella. Sans our own umbrella, we hung out in the hotel lobby and watched DVD previews on the kiosk dispenser. The movie “Boyhood” looked promising, so upon our return to our own hotel, we borrowed it from an identical kiosk.

     While Deanne busied herself in the restroom, I tried to set up the movie on the Play Station, but it wouldn't work. So I notified the front desk, who sent an ancient maintenance guy up, who finally got it going after fifteen minutes of fiddling. But he was very courteous and professional, so no problem.

     Next morning while Deanne slept, I went for a stroll and got some fresh made udon to go at a very popular cafeteria-style Japanese eatery. I didn't know what to order (due to unfamiliar Japanese terms), so I imitated a Japanese tourist who said, “Number seven” to the Caucasian guy in charge. It turned out to be very tasty and sensational for a very reasonable price, which we ate with cut fruits brought from home.

     We later went for a walk to check out the food trucks on Beach Walk Avenue (one has a #3 Yelp-rated ramen in the U.S.) just to see 'cause they opened much later and we weren't staying for lunch. Then we went back to our room, watched the remainder of the video (which took awhile for me to start up again—it was a good movie), checked out, caught the bus back to our car, and drove home.

     True, it was a simple outing, but sooo relaxing and downright strange to be away from the kids in town overnight, trying not to wonder too much how they were doing, but nice to be free from the figurative shackles and on a “real” (extended) date alone again. And share quiet, easy talk of whatever, no pressure, no need for extravagance or show 'cause that's not our taste, style, or preference anyway.

     That's what's nice about being in a loving, real relationship: we're free to be who we are. No need to impress. Just enjoy each other, which comes quite natural as long as we try to be considerate, concerned, attentive, and all that good-lovin' stuff.

     It's a pretty nice way to live and a pretty nice marriage—still fresh after eighteen years.