Temper, Avoidance, Lying, and Laziness

                  A hot temper is perhaps my most visible if not greatest weakness among many that include (to varying degrees) pride, vanity, lustfulness, fretfulness, lack of faith, lack of generosity, unforgiveness, and inflexibility. (Sorry to burst anyone's bubble: I'm not perfect.) It is usually born of impatience or irritability over small preventable things that don't resolve timely. (Yes, I can be petty: tsk, tsk, tsk.)
     An example of a recent flare up follows. At the time, Braden is already in the doghouse for having gotten a fourth quarter grade of C+ in social studies, not staying on top of his grades as promised, lying about it repeatedly, dumping his social studies binder, lying about why he dumped it, and giving me loud, disrespectful b.s. to confuse and steer me away from the evidence. After ascertaining the truth through diligent (angry) questioning, I make him retrieve the binder from the nearby dumpster, ground him for three weeks, and assign him nightly dish washing duty. This background does not exonerate me from my impatient rantings described below that were far from honorable or dignified. I have since (and once again) prayed for God's help to relieve me of this habitual sin because I can't do it alone.

My Impatient Rantings

 (Setting: one recent evening)

     “I read the other night something about someone saving the Natatorium,” says Braden.
     “Where did you read this?” I ask.
     “In the Midweek.”
     “Who's saving it?”
     “The government.”
     “Which government?”
     “Congress or...?”
     “Congress?” At this point, I know he's wrong. I question in disbelieving tone to get him to correct his error, for a man's word is important and he should always speak truth to the best of his knowledge and ability and not knowingly substitute convenient erroneous misstatement.
     “Oh, I forgot... The state house.”  
     He's close, but no cigar. “The state house?” I ask incredulous.
     “The state house and state senate.”
     “What's that body called?”
     “The state...lezijlature.”
     “It's not state lezijlature,” I mock because I'm the parent and that's what impatient parents with short tempers sometimes (always) do.
     “...The state...lezijhlature.”
     “Go look it up!
     He disappears for awhile and I later see him perusing a children's dictionary. I say use the regular one. “I can't find it,” he says. Since it's dinner time I say do it later.  
     But later, as is his wont, he still hasn't done a thing, instead settling into a state of near suspended animation. So from my room I shout to him to pronounce it.  
     He shows up hours later and says, “Legislature.”
     “Which legislature?” I ask because sometimes when he adds a word or two in front he gets tongue-tied and mispronounces.  
     “The state house and state senate.” 
     “Not the state house and state senate, the state what?” Legislature, I intone to myself soundlessly and without moving my lips, my face altering hues like an octopus in heat as I increase toward maximum amplitude my mental telepathy thought wave transmissions.  
     The oscillating fan on the floor, beside my bed rubs up against the drapes causing an irritating, vibrating, flattering–lips sound that goes: “ppppppstatepppplegislatureppppp...”
     “The Hawaii state legislative branch,” Braden says with conviction.
     “That's not right! What body makes the laws?” A long pause follows. “Well?”
     “I don't know.”
     “You don't? What did the article say?” Here I regain some composure, having given up for now my extrasensory communications powers because my internal omni-directional antenna transmitter is obviously malfunctioning, causing painful reverberations within my cranial cavity. The fan now sputters: “Ststststatelegleglegislaturenahnahnahnah...”
     “I don't...remember,” he says.
     “Then read it!”
     He leaves the room and returns thirty hours later. “I couldn't find it,” he says. 
     “What do you mean you couldn't find it?” We store billions of copies of each Midweek issue on our kitchen storage cart, which means they outnumber our unit's cockroach population by three.
     “I mean I found it, but just scanned it.”
     “Then read the whole thing”—this said at peak volume. I can't believe he's wasting my time, not having read the entire article yet.  
     “No! I mean the first time I scanned it. This time I read the whole thing but it doesn't say the body.”
     “It doesn't?” Here I'm bit cooler, but skeptical. His nonsensical non sequiturs reassure me that he's the linguistically challenged one, not me (or is it I?) 
            “No.”
     “Are you sure?”
     “Yes.”
     “If I read it now, I won't find it?”
     “I don't think so.”
     “You don't think so?”
     “No, you won't.”
     This takes me aback. “Okay. Then would like to take a guess?”
     “No.”
     “Then go to bed.”
     I later call him back. “What answer did you give me the first time.”
     “The Hawaii state legislature.”
     “Well why didn't you just say it?” I shake me head to test for loose parts. Clackataclackataclackata go the Chiclets inside. This explains what happened to those Chicklets I accidentally inhaled and swallowed whole. No wonder Mom told us never to swallow gum. “Go to bed,” I say.
     Later, as I'm brushing my teeth and feeling the need to extinguish the angry burn still in my chest, I remember my friend Norm telling me that shouting at Braden over his academic struggles won't help. I ask Braden are you awake?, then call him over when he says no.
     “What's the law making body?” I ask.
     “The Hawaii state legislature.”
     “Write it down on a sheet of paper. Include the pronunciation. Is that the same as the legislative branch?”
     “No.”
     “Get a portfolio. Keep it in there. Whenever you have a word you need to learn, put it in there. This isn't the first time you struggled with this.”  
     “Yes, Dad.”

End of impatient rantings

(resumption of normal (abnormal) narrative)

 

            Later that evening, I explain to Deanne that what bothers me most is Braden's avoidance strategy—hiding his grades, throwing away his binder, avoiding the phrase “state legislature”, avoiding taking the most challenging courses, dropping out of honorary chamber orchestra in order to avoid having to practice harder to master difficult pieces (I only learn about this “honor” after his intermediate orchestra's final performance because his name is erroneously included in the program's list of honor chamber orchestra musicians), and failing to earn a single merit badge after nearly three years in scouting because avoiding difficult requirements is easier than working hard to fulfill them.
     “I have no tolerance for avoidance because something's difficult,” I say. “He has to do it over and over until he gets it right. Whether its guitar, violin, math, social studies, or whatever, if he does it enough times, he'll master it. When I know he's avoiding something, I purposely drill him on it to force him to learn it. He has to do his part, too, by thinking and trying, not avoiding.”  
     “When he's nervous, he gets flustered sometimes. Maybe we should sit down when we're all calm—.”
     “You do it. I'm doing my best. Please do it yourself sometime—whenever you want,” I suggest supportively.
     All his life we've been trying to instill in him an attitude of excellence in everything he does because taking care of small things leads to big things taking care of themselves and by doing well in school, he keeps his options open. It's his slackadaisical attitude and dishonest attempts to cover up that I find so disconcerting: grave character flaws that have and will continue to come back and bite him. I've seen it countless times in friends, acquaintances, and coworkers. Though some have managed to get by, few if any have had thriving careers or have come across as peaceful or content. 
     Yet for some reason, Braden's failings don't seem to bother him, which only disconcerts me more. “If you try your best studying five hours every night, I'll go to bat for you and talk with your teacher and figure out what's the matter,” I tell him. “But you don't. You got what you deserved. So don't tell Mom anymore it wasn't my fault. Excuses mean zero.”
     Long-shot goals that I share with him the following evening in hopes of motivating him to try harder and making him realize that what he does now is important: Air Force pilot and chef graduate (from Kapiolani Community College). Either could lead to an honorable, fulfilling career, if and when he gets his act together. “It's your choice,” I tell him. “Cruise now and work hard with tough low paying jobs the rest of your life. Or work hard now, and cruise with enjoyable, high paying jobs the rest of your life. I can't force you, it's up to you to decide.” Part of me fears he's still too immature to “get it.” Perhaps I'll force him to get a job soon. Perhaps he'll turn things around and get all A's and B's from now on. Or perhaps he'll continue as he has and end up with a thriving career far more successful than mine—stable (stuck) in a white collar below middle management supervisory accountant position.  (My middling writing "career" with hardly a reader doesn't count.) But at least I'm peaceful and content. For now.   

Cleaning

     I hated when my mom used to say, “Cleanliness is next to godliness.” What she really meant was, “Not clean enough—do better, do more.” She'd go on these cleaning jags whenever special guests were to arrive, which I found hypocritical. Weren't we good enough, as is? For what purpose were we attempting to impress them beyond treating them well and with dignity?
     Besides having us clean toilets, mirrors, and sinks, she'd go over-the-top by adding jalousies, screens, windows, and sills. I'd say “Do you really think they're going to inspect?” After all, they were arriving at night and the drapes would be closed. She'd response, “It doesn't matter, I notice the difference.”
     “Then why now? They're hardly even dirty?”
     When she ignored the question that meant “Hush up and get to work, you're doing it because I said so.”
     Now, with older and wiser (foolish) eyes, I understand a bit better her motives, because I find myself becoming slowly cleaner.
     When Braden, our first, was a newborn, we let our place get pretty decrepit—toys left strewn across the floor along with burp cloths, books, papers, and diaper cleaning accessories and supplies, stains dotting the greater portion of our living room carpet. We were just too worn and exhausted to expend the energy to “do things right.” Only after those first few (they seemed forever) sleep-deprived months did I stop and think, “This is getting disgusting” and hand-cleaned the carpet and tidied up with Deanne's help the living room every night before bedtime.
     Things held steady like that for the next dozen or so years during which time Penelope came, then Jaren, and we raised them all through toddlerhood and beyond. Now that they are quite independent and helpful (one of the best ways to prepare children for adulthood is to assign them chores—see my prior Chores essay—which means less chores for Deanne and me as we offload more to them) we've got time on our hands. How to fill the hours?
     I, like my parents, am not one to sit idle for long—too much restless energy. While they filled countless hours watching TV and Dad read a fair amount, I watch zero TV now and instead play guitar, exercise, do some black and white digital photo processing, and odds and ends projects around the house. Even so there are still too many hours to fill. So, cleaning beyond usual chores (it never ends) is a productive, satisfying way to fill some of the void. Odd isn't it? I've become one of those that “enjoys” cleaning. My wife and I (mostly her) even do extra cleaning before the arrival of special guests and before we go on trips (to give ourselves the treat of a clean house to return to—always a pleasant surprise. This started for me when I was a bachelor fresh out of college and I once came home exhausted from a trip to a sink of filthy dishes—never again!) Such cleaning, I have found, makes the time go by faster before the anticipated event—not necessary, but quite harmless, though cleaning before the arrival of special guests is cultural: Don't look bad before others and always put your best foot forward; if they're impressed, so much the better.
     An engineer friend once said something that surprised me. I had been sharing about Braden's struggles in school and how I supposed it would be okay if he ended up doing yard work for a living. He said, “I'd do that,” smiling a rare heartfelt smile. “You would?” I asked, stupefied. He nodded. “I enjoy working in the yard. I find it relaxing.”
     It was then that I realized that my dad hadn't spent all those weekends and vacations doing yard work—mowing, trimming, and spraying poison; painting; wiping down the exterior walls with Clorox to free it of mold; washing and polishing the car; cleaning windows, screens, sills, and jealousies; and endless other chores ad nauseum because “they needed to be done,” as he had so often claimed, but rather because he had enjoyed them, all the while lost in thought, listening to his tiny transistor radio, earbud attached if he was operating noisy machinery.
     In that regard, I've become like my parents, sans radio (I work in silence), though not yet to their degree. And I don't know whether to feel proud or embarrassed.

Sleep

     A good night's sleep is priceless. There was a time when I would have loved to move back to Hilo (it's slow, calm, easy pace soothes my soul like nowhere else), but no more due to the coquis: noisy non-native frogs recently introduced that chirp all night long—annoying and disruptive—and that don't have a single natural predator in Hawaii, thus, everywhere they've populated—virtually the entire east side of the Big Island—they've overrun. Some claim their chirps register near a hundred decibels. Try sleeping through that in peace (sort of like sleeping through boo whistles over bad calls at a French Open tennis match for ten straight hours).
     Michael Jackson died over want of a good night's rest and so have countless others—asleep at the wheel, overdosed on licit or illicit drugs, or done in by cardiovascular disease or stroke brought on by chronic over-exhaustion. Along with obesity and insufficient exercise, America's youth now suffer all too often from inadequate sleep. The way our family ensures sufficient sleep is by eating healthy, getting plenty of exercise, following our consciences (albeit we're far from perfect), and adhering to strict early-to-bed, early-to-rise routines. The last is easy, sleep coming natural, if the first three are practiced and there is a no-TV (see my prior TV-less Bliss essay), no computer, no electronic devices, and everybody has to do something quiet before bedtime policy that's enforced.
     Here's our crazy-beautiful weekday evening schedule starting from after school:

2:00 – 5:00 Kids come home, do homework, exercise outside, read and bathe.

4:00 – 5:00 I come home, wind down, and do some exercises, Deanne makes dinner.

5:00 – 6:30 We all eat dinner, clean up. Deanne goes for a walk with one or more of our kids, I bathe and brush my teeth.

6:30 – 7:00 Everyone reads or does a quiet hobby/activity.

7:00 – 8:00 I read on my bed to each child in turn.

     Children's bedtime are as follows: Jaren 7:30 pm; Penelope 8:15pm; Braden 8:40pm. My bedtime ranges from 8:15 to 8:40pm., Deanne's ranges from 9:30 to 10:00pm.
     I awaken at around 3:30 and read the bible until 4:15 to 4:30 (I read it because it works; everything in my life and our household runs smoother as a result and we all just feel better too, and the alone-time I get to spend with God is humbling, instructive and peaceful).
     Here's the remainder of our early morning schedule:

4:30 – 6:00 I eat and get ready for work, spending a few minutes with Deanne in bed before leaving, giving and receiving quiet well-wishes for the day.

6:00 – 6:10 I walk to the bus stop.

6:00 – 7:10 Deanne and the kids get up, get dressed, eat breakfast, clean up, brush teeth, and head off for school.

     Deanne was volunteering at a hospice twice a week during the kids' school hours. Now, she's employed twice a week as a teacher's assistant at Jaren and Penelope's school. The rest of her weekday hours are spent keeping our household running—cooking, cleaning, washing clothes, and ironing my work shirts; doing craft projects; and reading.
     I read in a book In Search of Silence about how the journalist writer went to one of the most austere monasteries in the U.S. and when he inquired about their sleep schedules (similar to mine, I was amused to note), a monk said, "...the darkness is a very safe space.  It's about birth...  The quiet, dark places are where the treasure is buried...  We have six free hours before our workday begins.  how many rich people can say that?  We call it 'holy leisure.'  Having that time does something to your humanity."
     For me, the early sleep and rise schedule started when Jaren was an infant: sleep when the infant sleeps or you won't get much sleep—so we discovered early on. Because Deanne nursed Jaren (who never had much formula), she had to wake up for middle-of-the night feedings. By 4:30am Jaren, after being fed, was ready to start his day and so was I (I suppose), so I took him out for walks around the neighborhood. It was quality father-son time that allowed gave Deanne time to catch up on her Zs.  
     The schedule stuck. It's been years since I've set an alarm; I wake up when I do and check the time and ask myself did I get enough sleep? I feel fine with six—and—a half hours of sleep each week night. Weekends I get a bit more with an occasional after-breakfast or after-lunch nap.
     Sleep as a parent is so precious, we savor every minute of it, yet do our best not to overindulge, which is easy enough when three kids are waiting outside wanting to be fed or something to do. They're good about waiting patiently, and Braden and Penelope have been instructed to feed themselves if they're hungry, but we start feeling bad about making them wait too long. They get enough sleep, and so do we, so getting up-and-at-'em is rarely a problem for any of us.

Self Talk

     Everyone self talks, maybe not aloud, but at least in their minds. I can't even imagine life without it. Such talk may include (as it often enough does for me) what day it is or things to be done, past or future conversations, or exclaimed thoughts that would never be said aloud. Besides such everyday matters, they sometimes encompass our most private, guarded thoughts that if divulged would probably alienate many others from us.
     I can imagine how self-righteously indignant we'd feel if we could read the thoughts of others. ”What?” I can't believe it! You just said... Liar!” Of course, if others could read our thoughts we'd fare no better. “That's what you think of me? The heck with you! I thought I could trust you.”
     I bet even dogs, chimps, dolphins and other higher animals also do it on their own levels. “Food! Rover. That's me, Rover!” (wag, wag, wag) “Get off, mine! Oh yeah, take that!” (shove) “Mate! Mate! Mate! Now, she's ready!” (swim, swim swim)
     So I find it odd when someone calls someone “weird” for vocalizing his self talk while unloading his stress or as a means to concentrate. We've all heard it before: “You're talking to yourself? Weird!”
     What's wrong with it, I wonder? That someone engaged in a most human activity? Or that it's not considered socially acceptable while others are present—sort of like walking around the house in one's underclothes. Yet when people hum, sing, or whistle to themselves, they seldom get branded “weird” so vehemently—perhaps because they're more aware of what they're doing at the time. And I'm not talking about people with chronic mental illnesses who walk down the street muttering obscenities, scolding, or expounding on who knows what. I'm talking about college students who, lost in thought (and muddled from sleep deprivation and mental and physical exhaustion), mutter, “What day is it? Wednesday. Chem exam—gotta study after lunch.”
     I used to say such things in college, in the safety of my own room or that of my sister. I think now in hindsight I did it to ingrain certain thoughts, sort of like repeating a phone number or name to better remember it—nothing clinically abnormal about that, I'm sure. Or perhaps I did it to refocus my attention to more positive or productive thoughts.
     Everyday self talk is one of the few areas in our lives over which we have supreme control, yet few seem to apply such power to best advantage. Although visualization is not a form of self-talk, I think that what we say to ourselves goes hand-in-hand with what we see in our mind's eye. It's hard to think positive thoughts—“Praise you, God, for blessing us with a wonderful place to live, for healing my illnesses, and watching over Braden as he walks home from the bus stops everyday,” or “Wow, homemade spaghetti for dinner, made with whole grain pasta and meat balls, I can't believe how blessed I am to get to eat all I want—tasty and nutritious—all in the comfort of my own home. Or that I have unlimited clean running water, lots or hot bath water every night, a large bed to sleep in, a car to drive, a wardrobe full or clothes, a safe neighborhood to live in...” and at the same time visualize a jerk boss, bad traffic, disobedient kids, or an unsupportive wife. The two just don't coincide. And there is ample evidence that suggests that thinking and saying positive or negative thoughts can become self fulfilling.
     We have a choice then via self talk (and visualization) to shape our general dispositions: positive or negative, and our futures: hopeful and productive or fearful and withdrawn. This is especially true in human interactions where attitude, intentions, and non-verbal communication can have profound effects on outcomes. See positive attributes in another—“He means well, he has a good heart, he's been though a lot,” and positive interactions are more probable. Assign negative attributes—“What a jerk, he's out to get me, I'll never trust him again,” and it'll be that much tougher to deal with.
     One thing that I recommend avoiding, though, is self delusional or destructive self talk. “I'm the best. I'm gonna make him eat his words and look like a fool. I'll be a millionaire in no time”—just sets the braggart up for disappointment and failure. I much prefer humble and hopeful self talk. “I'm okay, I've got so much to be thankful for, just do my best—things are fine and always turn out for the best in the end. I've got everything I could ever need or want to survive and more. There's always hope. Just do the right thing and leave the results to God.”
     Although a person's actions usually count for more (and rightfully so), I think a person's thoughts—especially his self talk—defines to a large degree who he is—kind and gentle, or rude and judgmental—and shows in his actions. While unthinking kind or callous acts can lead to corresponding thoughts, how much more so can conscious thought lead to revealing acts. For people don't hide well who they truly are; it all comes out in time—through a frown, grin, smirk, giggle, hug, kiss, letter, or fist. 

Prayer

     Believe it or not, prayer is an essential act of human nature. It, like art, is one of the few attributes that separates man from the beasts (see also my prior Art—Creating and Acquiring essay). My friend Norm once lectured me forty-five minutes about The Purposes of Organized Religion (to placate the masses, explain unknown phenomena, redistribute wealth, etc.—nothing I hadn't heard before) at the end of which I said, “...Well, what does any of this have to do with belief in God?” (which was what our conversation had been about). He said, ”Well, religions require something that followers believe in, that they can worship and make offerings and sacrifices to, and that justifies their harsh existences. Deity or deities fit the bill nicely.”
     I said, “I don't think that's the way it went at all. I don't think some people in the past decided, 'Let's create legends and religions to manipulate the masses.'  I think people are born with an innate belief in God or gods...”
     He said, “I don't think it's innate.”
     I said, “Oh, I think it is. No matter where you look through the annals of time, anywhere in the world with enduring civilizations—.”
     “There are no enduring civilizations,” he said, interrupting.
     “I define 'enduring' as those lasting more than say, two hundred years... They all have had rituals and practices suggesting widespread belief in God or gods. I can't recall a single exception. It's fundamental to man's nature, I believe.”
     “The so-called God gene?” he said, voice thick with disdain.
     “I don't know what it is, but from birth everyone, pretty much, has this a prior i knowledge of spirituality.”
     He took in a deep, distressed breath and said, “Well, anyway, food for thought.” (When he feels depressed, he ends our conversation abruptly. What's ironic is that he's neither atheistic nor agnostic: he's said he knows God exists because so many people believe in Him. He fancies himself a polytheist who's anti-organized religion. When I asked him what beliefs in disorganized religion he espouses, he said, “People who believe in disorganized religions are f__-ups. I'm not that. I believe in certain aspects of unorganized religions...” I laughed with good humor and said, “I didn't mean it that way.” He's chided me a great deal in the past about my religious beliefs, to which I always laughed, so there was no real offense taken in this verbal exchange.)
     Contrary to Norm's implied thesis, I don't believe people pray because of (organized) religion, but because of their belief in God or gods and because it works. Even modern medicine recognizes the value of faith (and prayer) for patient recovery and health, citing the psychological benefits of placebos, positive thinking, reduced stress, intestinal fortitude, and social support structures. I've experienced prayerful healing countless times including twice from very serious ailments—both times, prayer brought me peace in the midst of turmoil, when my body was going berserk, including times when hospital staff argued with doctors over treatment options, and times when things could have gotten far worse. Both times God brought me through, not fully healed even to this day (one doctor said I already have two strikes against me), yet recovered enough to continue my more or less normal life, able to do just about whatever I want, and that much more appreciative of everything (even the smallest things) and just a little bit wiser—He'd blessed me with healing and then some.
     Deanne and I rarely prayed alone together when we first got married, even though we attended church together—I suppose because of pride and because it felt awkward though we'd do it if asked to do so in small Christian groups settings. The love was always there so that was never the issue. It only became regular after I got really sick two-and-a-half years ago, and the year leading up to it when I experienced disconcerting health symptoms. Then the time spent with her in prayer became almost daily necessity. So today, besides saying grace before meals and bedtime prayers with the children, which we had been doing since Braden was three, we pray together nightly, lifting up all our concerns, asking His blessings and guidance, acknowledging His sovereignty, asking His forgiveness, thanking Him for blessing us throughout the day, and asking His comfort, peace, and protection the coming day. It may seem like a lot, but it never takes more than a few minutes. We pray as we feel called to, to unburden our life's worries, concerns, and hurts; to give thanks; to worship; and to seek His Holy presence and guidance. We pray holding hands, then hug, then drift off to sleep. It's a nice way to end each day.
     In addition, Deanne prays for me as we hug before I leave for work. Because of my health issues I have drawn strength from her during such times, even while praying God's blessings upon her, as she has drawn strength from me in the past during her times of weakness.
     Prayer, then is a good thing. However, there is a right and wrong way to pray: we must pray with submissive hearts. God isn't some genie in a bottle come down from Heaven to do our bidding. We must obey Him and pray as He would have us pray. He knows our thoughts before we speak or think them, so prayer's main purpose is to spend time with Him, conversing with Him, He mostly speaking through silent prompts, or heartfelt convictions, affirmations, insights, and/or mercies.
     As a final caveat, there's a saying, “Be careful what you pray for, you just might get it.” My mom, who is not very religious other than by holding onto vestiges of her parents' strong Buddhist faiths (more evident of late than when I was a child), once said something that surprised me. She had been describing wealthy distant relatives who had everything they could possibly want as far as material, creature comfort went, but little else, for excepting their finances, their lives were in shambles, full of anger, strife, withdrawal, betrayal, grief, bitterness, and resentment; mental, physical, and emotional problems; and serial misfortunes. I asked her how did they get so wealthy? She said, “They pray all the time—pray, pray, pray to get rich.” Her palms came together and bobbed up and down in imitation. “I want money, lots and lots of money, I want to be sooooo rich, rich beyond compare,” she said.
     “Why were they so desperate?” I asked.
     “Because they grew up poor like us.”
     “But you didn't pray like that, did you?”
     “No. Wealth was never the issue. Just enough. Family always came first. And all of our healths of course.”
     “Why didn't they pray for those, too?”
     “I'm sure they did. But all they got in the end was money. So after awhile they prayed all the more for it. Too bad—they're basically good, honest people, just too obsessed. It's money-this, money-that, everything is money, money, money. I guess they have nothing much else worth talking about—that and their dogs.”
     “How do you know that's how they pray?”
     “Oh, they told us. They'll tell anyone who'll listen that's how they got rich, by praying.”
     It was one of the most valuable life lessons I ever learned. And I never prayed for money.

Patience—Part II

     In my earlier Patience Part I essay, I said patience is a virtue. I meant it in a general sense in dealing with life's vagaries, seeming injustices, and minor inconveniences over which we have little control. Getting upset over slow traffic is merely self-destructive as it doesn't get it going any faster. Neither will fuming over high food and gas prices lower them. Nor will bitterness over a suboptimal job or unpublished writings cause the job to improve or writings to get published. We're better off accepting certain things with calm equanimity. (I've made peace a long time ago with my job situation—I love my job, the pay is more than ample, and the benefits are super—but it's still not optimal. As far as my writings go, I'm published in this blog; though I haven't made any money off my writings and my readership numbers are suboptimal, I'm okay with it for now—this blog's been up for only a half-year and I've enjoyed it.)
     One realm in which an overabundance of patience is not desirable is that of child rearing, particularly when kids act up, or get sloppy or lazy. We've all seen unruly, disruptive, whiny kids in the mall, airport, or restaurant with patient (lazy/neglectful/ineffectual) parents nearby ignoring them as if they were perfect angels, or asking them to stop it, but not really meaning it, as if such meager efforts suffice. It's obvious these kids always have their way, they lead unhappy and unstructured lives, and they never learned self-control or manners. It's too bad—it's not their faults, it's their parents.' (These kids will learn self control in time but such learning will probably happen only much later and at much steeper costs, and perhaps only at the hand of non-family outsiders.)
     In short, then, parents must discipline and teach their children on a strict and regular basis and not suffer their failings mildly. It's not enough to do it once in awhile or only for the most egregious transgressions, either, it must be done all the time for all transgressions. (The last is a joke as any reasonable parent knows, for it's impossible to correct and discipline all the time for every transgression for such attempts will soon turn counterproductive. But as an overall goal, and when a child is primed and ready, “consistency is the key,” as our friends of four well-behaved boys put it. Through experience we have learned that each child will eventually “get it” and behave well in general without prompting after he or she knows Mom and Dad mean business and won't budge.)
     We have thusly raised our kids with discipline and structure—quite strict by most standards. Their behavior—usually self-contained and disciplined—reflects this (Jaren being the notable exception at times—we're still working on it.) Structure, like consistent discipline, creates predictability and stability, which create security, which reduces misbehavior to reaffirm the boundaries, which reduces the need for discipline—all desirable in orderly households.
     So it may seem ironic that though we say grace before all our meals and prayers before each of their bedtimes, we have granted them great freedom in their Christian walks, meaning we never “forced” them to become Christian, to say they believe in God, to choose Jesus as their Lord and Savior, or to be baptized. The kids, on their own, have to make their own such decisions, we feel, perhaps the most personal of decisions, ones that can't and shouldn't be forced, faked, or made just to please others. It would have been easy for us to have gotten impatient and forced Braden, now fourteen, to get baptized, and he would have gone through the motions, but had he not felt changed inside, it would have been just for show and of little benefit to him, potentially harmful if it caused him to rebel against us and/or Christianity. On rare occasion we stated our hopes for him but made clear that the only thing that really mattered was what he felt, believed, and wanted for himself inside.
     Four months ago, our pastor offered a baptism and church membership class series to him and two other fourteen-year-old boys. Braden seemed so noncommittal that as the deadline neared, I felt certain he'd say, “I'm not interested,” but to my surprise and delight he said he'd be interested in going.
     The baptism and membership classes took place on Sundays after church throughout the two months leading up to Easter. During the last class, the boys were asked to decide by Wednesday whether they'd like to be baptized and/or become church members. Again, Braden seemed so noncommittal up to Tuesday evening that I felt certain he'd say, “I'm not ready yet.” But when we told him after dinner that Pastor M. needs an answer by tomorrow, call and leave a message on the church office's answering machine, what have you decided?, he said I'd like to do both.
     On Good Friday, Braden participated in two services by reading scripture verses.
     Saturday evening, he stayed overnight at the church with church staff and the two other boys being baptized. And Easter morning, he accompanied a group to sunrise service at Makapuu Blow Hole.
     Easter service proper at our church started like any other, but soon got into the lead-up to the boys' baptisms. The boys each recited in turn their Christian Creeds that they (and the leaders) had developed—beautiful statement of faith.
     We have had a longish history with the two other boys—they were both in scouting with Braden ever since we moved into the area and over a year before we started attending this particular church, which they had been attending all along (unknown to us) with their moms. All three boys had been to varying degrees immature, bratty, shy, and lacking in confidence, with chips on their shoulders. So watching them over the past three-and-a-half years mature into voice-changed adolescents and tall and able men-to-be, and hearing them now speak their Christian faiths so unabashed and committed, I felt as if they had reached a culmination of sorts in the eyes of God and man, a crossing of a boundary into a new life in Christ, proof positive to all present that God was and is faithful and everyone's toils and prayers through the years had not been in vain but worth it, yet nothing compared to God's love for the boys.
     Braden had come perhaps the farthest—a difficult strong-willed child that we, naive and slow to learn, struggled, strived, and railed against. I felt not so much pride during the ceremony as overwhelming relief that no matter what happened, he was God's and He would take care of him. Our job was done as far as his first, great step/leap of faith went. I wept, mouth aquiver, throughout the ceremony. It's such a lovely and accepting church that I felt no shame or inhibition whatsoever—only profound gratitude.
     Up to then, I knew that Braden had all the head knowledge necessary to comprehend Christianity's tenets, but I never felt certain that he felt its reality—close and warm-or had chosen to believe. I had numerous doubts whether he'd ever believe. I hadn't reaffirmed my Christian faith until I was twenty-seven (my parents had brought us to church for one year which was when I first believed as an eight-year-old; I had been praying off and on on my own since then) and I was fully prepared for him to take his time to decide, too. So it all came as a blessed surprise when he told us of his intentions even though I inwardly questioned his sincerity. It was only after he got up with the boys and stood there waiting to recite his lines that it hit me that it really was going to happen and he really did believe. It was the most I cried over him since forty minutes leading up to his birth when he attained zero-station (the narrowest gap in the birthing process) and I knew then, too, that it really was going to happen—God was going to bless us with a child.

Patience—Part I

     Patience is a virtue of which I've been blessed by God with an ample share (I married at age thirty-six; had only four premarital romances my entire life, the first in college, the longest lasting a year; have written fiction off and on for over twenty-five years without a single sale, though I've submitted works for publication only intermittently and much less than I know I should've; have stuck with a suboptimal job with a series of suboptimal bosses for over twenty years; have lived in rentals all my adult life; and have lived in ridiculously overpriced and overcrowded Honolulu for the past twenty-five years). I suppose many would say I'm just slow, which may be true, but I'd prefer to think I like to savor the journey, which makes arrival at the destination that much sweeter—assuming I ever get there. Others may say since I'm content, no wonder I'm patient—there's little incentive to change. To an extent I agree, however contentment is far more a state of mind than a state of affairs such that if we feel grateful for what we have rather than pine for what we don't, we'll more likely attain contentment.
     That being said, I can strive and work hard to achieve life goals like the next person, largely through self-discipline and perseverance. (I have a CPA, MBA, and read and write incessantly, mainly to improve myself and help others, and for enjoyment.) So it's not as if I'm naturally lazy and sanguine with anything that comes my way. It's critical that we all do our parts to make the world and ourselves better, and contentment without that minimal effort, I believe, is impossible.
     But I've found that striving and trying harder to attain contentment, peace, and fulfillment seldom works. Especially in the past when I was eager and at times even desperate to find a girl friend, trying harder just made things worse. Prospective targets of my affections sensed my neediness and nervousness, and felt repulsed, which is understandable, for even in mine own eyes, when girls approached me with those same attributes, I withdrew posthaste to spare their feelings. It was only when I surrendered all my dreams, hopes, and desires to get married, have kids, etc. to God, that I felt at peace and content with my singleness and at ease with all the girls I met, even cute ones that would have hitherto made me gulp. God had been encouraging me up to that point to entrust that one last, most cherished dream to Him by blessing me so abundantly, giving me joy and fulfillment in everything I had and in serving others—so much so that I finally realized that if He sent me to China to live out my days as a single missionary, I'd be fine with it because I knew He'd bless me for it. (This was in the 1990's when China was still considered a Third World Country.)
     And just that simple act of trust made all the difference in the world. It lifted my lifetime's weight of longing from my soul. I no longer had to plan, scheme, and strive, I could just be me, and I liked it. It felt easy, natural, comfortable, and good. Henceforth, I looked upon girls with a sort of bemused detachment, wondering what God would do next if I just treated them well as sisters in Christ.
     Girls soon noticed the difference—the seeming confidence and maturity—that made me more attractive than all the want-to-have guys, and sensed by okay-with-whatever-happens; I-don't-really-need-a-girlfriend spirit that took the pressure off them to make me happy and not devastate me if things didn't work out. With so many new prospects including attractive girls (not just needy, desperate ones) I began wondering, does God really want me to stay single forever? Or did He just want my willingness to stay single forever?
     It took years and a series of stupefying “coincidences” (I only realized them many years later and included them in a story) for me to find out. Deanne and I met, and years later, began courting, eventually reaching the point that we both felt certain that God had brought us together. It took awhile, and there were times when I wondered if I'd ever get married at all, but things worked out for the best in the end, praise God.

Compliments

     Compliments go a long way, they really do. I've been married sixteen years, but they feel more like five. It amazes me when I look through the kids' photo albums how much they've grown in just a few short years, and how much Deanne and I have aged blossomed.
     Obviously what made the years go by so fast were happy, healthy relationships. The ol' saying about time going by fast when you're have fun is true. Conversely, when life is miserable, time slows to a crawl.
     At the risk of sounding self-complimentary, a large reason for our marital felicity can be attributed to my liberal bestowing of compliments upon Deanne. She, in turn, has praised me now and then, conservative lest I get too prideful.
     Deanne grew up in an environment where compliments were seldom shared. When she first met my parents, and I asked her what she thought, she said she thought she had gone to Heaven, seeing them so loving with each other.
     This took me aback: that was the way they always acted. They hadn't been any more loving than usual. It was then that I realized that their usual way of interrelating was Deanne's family's rare exception or fairy-tale fantasy.
     My mom taught me to compliment by forcing me to praise my sister Joan's cooking. She'd make something awful and I'd mumble, “Tastes great, Joan,” and she'd say with bright cheer, “Thanks, Tim!” as if she couldn't tell I hadn't meant it.
     It reminded me of the Mary Tyler Moore episode in which Mary asks Mr. Grant his opinion about her true story essay that described her uncle that dressed up as Santa all year round. Mr. Grant opined, “It's all boring,” but explained that he respects her too much to give her false praise, and to demonstrate his point, he called in nincompoop incompetent Ted Baxter and told him he's doing a great job, to which the newscaster left beside himself with glee. When asked if that's what she wants, Mary said, “God, yes,” to which Mr. Grant patronized her with sarcastic, overblown puffery. Mary thought a moment then choosing to believe the happy lie, she said, “Why, thank you Mr. Grant.”
     Joan's cooking improved over time to the point that I grudgingly had to admit to myself that her cooking really was good (especially the canned cherries with ham).
     Mom always insisted that we compliment the cook no matter what-because it's such a downer to hear negativity after all the hard work and worry. It's a lesson that's stuck. Every meal Deanne has ever served me—thousands by now—I've thanked and praised her for, usually referring to the “wonderful meal”—even before I've tasted it. And after tasting it, I tell her something specific about why it's so delicious. And it's never been hypocritical or patronizing (as Mr. Grant implies), but sincere and true expressions of gratitude and appreciation.
     Compliments should be used sparingly with children, however. The new thinking (which makes sense to me for small things at least) is that we should praise the effort, not the outcome or the person, because kids know when they do well and that should be reward enough, too much praise can be like candy (can't get enough), and for kids who feel unworthy, it can even create discomfort so that they'll feel compelled to act or mess up to retest the boundaries and gain reassurance that everything's fine as usual with Mom and Dad critical as ever. (Kids have so much to learn by the time they reach adulthood that it's inevitable that they be corrected and corrected often, which often enough is in the form of criticism or discipline. On the surface it can sound harsh and cruel, but it really isn't. To the contrary, to correct and direct is to love, care, and nurture. The unloved child, by contrast, may be ignored and/or fatuously praised. And kids know this difference intuitively.)
     The other night Braden showed us his craft project—a hand-carved koa pendant cross. I told him I loved it for its beauty and design, and being a sometimes hobby craftsman, I asked him how he'd done it. I could tell he was pleased with Deanne's and my compliments, however, the next morning when I looked for a clean breakfast plate, I discovered that all the large dishes were filthy. He had been doing a good job of washing the dinner dishes recently and I soon made the connection, since it wasn't the first time it happened, that the inverse power of praise had been at work whereby praise becomes counterproductive.
     My mom—at the same time the most loving yet critical parent imaginable—once sat me down and for the first time ever, praised me profusely, telling me I should give myself more credit and be proud, and that she saw how hard I tried to do the right thing all the time—a real Joy Luck Club moment that taught me how to receive praise without feeling compelled to act up to regain equilibrium.
     The night following the messy dishes I said as we sat to say grace before dinner that we all needed practice giving and receiving praise. Everyone, each in turn, will compliment everyone else, I said, and each complimented person must say thank you. I demonstrated first, followed by Deanne and the others. It went well—lots of smiles, laughs, and joy in just a few moments.
     I never stop praising Deanne's beauty, too. It's easy—she really is beautiful. And I compliment her on things I find attractive about her. Almost as much as saying, “I love you,” telling her, “You're so sexy,” or “You're the most beautiful woman in the whole wide world,” or “You're the best!”—corny though they may sound—really do go a long way. And I'm often the prime recipient of her gratitude and good will.
     More recently, Branden shared his second craft project—a heart-shaped koa pendant. I again praised his work and this time told him of his tendency to act up after being praised due to his feeling unworthy and that he needed to receive such praise from family into his heart. I also said, “When classmates or others praise you, you he may need to guard your heart—they may just want something from you, but when we praise you, it's okay to feel good about it. Last time we complimented you on your cross pendant, the next morning, all the dishes were filthy. This time, I expect the dishes to be clean, alright?” He smiled and said, “Yes, Dad.”
     The next morning, the dishes were sparkling clean, praise God.

Memorial Services for Elders

       Funerals have changed a lot since I was a youth and I'm not sure I like it. I won't say they're now inappropriately upbeat or cheery, but nearly all the ones I've recently attended had amusing anecdotes, smiles, chuckles, and jokes or impersonations to celebrate the spirit and soul of the deceased during the main service proper. Grandchildren—often cute and sometimes touching—described humorous or intimate events they will always remember about Grandma or Grandpa. What was missing were the copious tears, the solemn gravity, and the heavy feeling of loss. The permanence of death got almost trivialized with simple assurances that they are now somewhere better.
     When I was a preteen, my Grandpa's funeral in Honokaa lasted a week in which all sorts of hell played out for many of his immediate and extended family. Multiple hour-long services held before his Buddhist shrine in the parlor of his three-generation family house—incense and mosquito punk imparting a smoky, hazy air, blue tinged and noxious—obligated us to kneel on zabutons (small square cushions) in the formal seating position (painful, painful, painful!) while the priest intoned sonorous chants—mournful sutras that taxed his breath and that were accented with occasional rhythmic tappings of a thick wooden mallet against a deeply resonant brass bowl gong. Dongdongdongdongdongdongdongggggggggg... it went. Sincere tears flowed copious from Grandpa's six surviving daughters seated in the front row by age and a dozen granddaughters. This was followed by a message—entirely in Japanese during which everyone sat informally.
     But this anguish was nothing compared to that experienced during the open casket viewings at church—the first service at which the priest spoke in (broken) English a refreshing message I could finally understand.
     I'd been fine until Mom dashed out of the room at the second of these with body-racking convulsions, sobbing aloud as she left. I assumed she was dying and, panicked, looked for assurances from Dad, seated beside me, who seemed unaffected, with a concentrated strain on his face that was his sometimes norm. After service, Mom appeared fine and chipper and for some reason I wasn't surprised.
     Then, on the final night, after completion of the priest's short message in a dinghy adjoining sanctuary, white gloved poll bearers dressed in military-style garb entered from behind us, marched the length of the center aisle, closed the casket lid, and carried Grandpa toward the front entrance. We followed (me in tears) out to a whisper quiet, nighttime parking lot where the open back of a long, black hearse limousine waited, engine growling, dark gray exhaust spewing forth. In went grandpa, the gate slammed shut, and the hearse crept away down the steep hill toward the unseen crematorium.
     Mom's family has always been very close and it shouldn't have mattered, but that was the first time I cried openly in public, and in front of all my relatives. Embarrassed at being the only male to weep and trying to hide it with little success, I found comfort only later when no one teased me about it or even mentioned it.
     A couple of days later back home in Hilo, my sister told Mom, “I don't ever want to have to attend one of those again!”
     “Why not? I asked, having enjoyed getting together with all the extended family for the first time in my life, despite the sad circumstances.
     “Because it's just too sad!”
     “No, I don't expect that,” said Mom. “Grandpa was Nisei—from the older (second) generation. We'll do things differently from now on.”
     “Especially the open casket—he looked so natural, like he was napping.”
     “Yes, he did look handsome. We had to do it. I'm glad I got to see him one last time, but I wouldn't want that for myself. It is too sad.”
     Every other service I've been to since then—some only a few years later—have been short, one-time, hour long affairs at a generic mortuary, some with western-style music and all with upbeat, honoring messages. If Grandpa's had been a final farewell send-off of a beloved to an unknown, never-to-return-or-be-seen-again afterlife, all succeeding ones have been minimal ceremonial offerings and celebrations of the deceased's life—much simpler, straight-forward, and less complicated, with after-service receptions sometimes filled with loud talk, raucous laughter, and naughty play and antics by youngsters. I guess a lot of the deceased preferred it that way, perhaps thinking in planning their own funerals, “Why should you make long, sorrowful sobs over me? That just makes things unpleasant for everyone. How's that going to help me once I'm gone?” I could picture my recently deceased Aunt Sue saying something like that.
     A former pastor of mine once said if no one cries at your funeral, it probably means that you missed far too many opportunities to connect with loved ones, friends, and coworkers. It should be one of our life's goals to become so lovingly connected that at our wakes mourners will weep copious and lines of them will spill out the doors into the parking lot. That made me think, is that what funerals should be?
     But then, later, that same pastor shared that at a service he was presiding over with ample mourners, he said that since he (the deceased) is Christian, he is now in Heaven, surrounded by rejoicing angels. Therefore, it really was a cause for celebration for persons of faith.
     I guess he was separating the way we live from the type of funeral service we should have. In other words, tears of survivors aren't necessary to have a meaningful service (or to save the deceased's soul), but survivors' tears suggest a life that had been well lived.
     Nonetheless, I can't help but feel that something is missing from these abbreviated, upbeat services. Sure, everyone mourns in their own way and time, but getting to the point that everyone mourns together—there's something special about that. I'd never felt closer to my immediate and extended family than during that hellish week of Grandpa's memorial services. Lifelong memories and attachments were made, which I still cherish. Not so with any of the other services I've attended since.
     There are few truly important events in life. There's child birth. There's adoption. There's marriage. There's religious milestones. And then there's death. They should all be given their due and while we tend to do excellent jobs with most of the former, we seldom so with the last. It's too bad, because true opportunities for renewed or improved intimacy and bonding among extended family members are increasingly rare.  It's understandable, though, how families in the midst of funeral preparations would feel too aggrieved, busy, and frazzled to plan and pay for elaborate and expensive additional services and unwilling to shoulder additional emotional burdens brought on by prolonged grief and multiple public appearances and resistant to deal with spontaneous bonding during vulnerable moments brought on by deep distress.
     I haven't yet thought about what I'd like my own funeral service to be like, but I would hope it would be deep, meaningful, moving, memorable, and even helpful—after all, if I'm fortunate enough to have the time, health, and inclination to plan and prepare, it would be my last chance to connect with and impart something to my loved ones, even if it's just to say thank you, I love you, and goodbye in my own unique way.

Jigsaw Puzzles

     It started three years ago when my daughter received a 150 piece jigsaw puzzle for Christmas—a fantasy scene with glitter sparkles, Bengal tiger and cubs, owls and owlets, and other large-eyed creatures with offspring in an idyll pond-in-foreground, forest-in-background setting—a bit hokey for my taste. But when she poured out the box's contents a month later on her dresser top, including the brown cardboard sawdust, and we began separating the few still stuck-together pieces, everything fell into place. I sorted the straight-edged pieces in one area, dark inner pieces with sparkles in another, tiger-striped ones in another, and pretty pinks in another, and placed the remaining mishmash of leafy sky, tree trunk bark, and owly feathers pieces back face-up into the brown, lower half box, in order to clear more space on our limited work surface.
     Penelope worked the borders—the easy part—while I worked the black water with sparkles.
     At first we worked by matching colors and patterns to find mates—the obvious pieces first. After accumulating a small block of two or three pieces, we sought to add to it, eventually building upon it as far as we could from our available stockpile. After that, we started new blocks of other distinctive patterns and colors, then made them grow. When patterns weren't so helpful due to an overabundance of similar pieces, we looked to shapes to help—the odd head-and-shoulders “male” piece; the ugly, asymmetrical “mouth”; the fat, loopy “leg.”
     Puzzles today are far easier than they were when I was a kid when all inner pieces were basically the same shape. Today's puzzle pieces are much more generous in offering shape clues with weird four-headed, three-headed, and one-headed monsters, one-mouthed, three-mouthed, and four-mouthed freaks, and some that don't even have male or female parts and are somewhat diamond-shaped with awkward, jutting angles.
     My mom was (and is) an avid puzzle-maker and it was a thing my siblings (mostly my older sister) and I got into, too. My specialty was picking out pieces with unusual, interesting looking designs and finding where they belonged based on the box cover's picture. It was rare that I couldn't find it, though it might take awhile since Mom usually got 2000 piecers. When mapped, I placed the piece within the borders exactly where it belonged and said, “Don't touch this—it belongs here.” At first they didn't believe, but then as I found more and more pieces—often bridge pieces that joined the border to the blocks they were working on—they caught on to the value of what I was doing.
     “Tim, I was looking for that piece! Ho, you spoiler!” or “No, you can't take all mine—how did you know it goes there?” Mom would often enough exclaim.
     “You gotta look at the picture,” I'd say.
     Jigsaw puzzles are a great family activity that anyone with patience and inclination can participate in—even my little one Jaren.
     That first one, Penelope and I did mostly on our own, standing there by her dresser. Braden helped out some when he saw our good progress and excitement over the ever-lessening “holes” within the puzzle's narrowing middle, and the fitting in of more and more “blocks” into the border's framework. The coming together of a puzzle is fun, remarkable work. From an impossible jangled mess to a decorative usable surface, it's something neither too hard nor too easy. And we do it side-by-side with intimate conversation when desired.
     Of course, this wasn't the first one they ever did. As three-year-olds, they had done large twelve- to fifteen- plastic or wooden piece story board jigsaw puzzles with Disney or Sesame Street characters, or sea animals, and so forth.
     But after that first traditional-style 150-piecer, they were hooked.
     Braden got a 250 piece round, ocean one that he and I did on his study desk, which was our former dining room table that we outgrew.
     After that, he got a 500 piece one (new) for fifty cents from his middle-school orchestra's rummage sale. We assembled that one outside in our carport upon a large plastic storage bin. The puzzle's thick, hefty pieces were finely ground along the edges and, assembled, depicted a high definition photo of a Japan fall scene. And it came with a tube of glue and small spatula for binding—an additional fun project that Braden undertook upon the puzzle's completion. The mounted work (held fast to the wall by Shoe Goo) now brightens an otherwise dreary corner of our carport.
     The puzzle's only weakness was loose fitting pieces that fell together almost frictionless, which deprived us of the sensual feel of well-fitted matings: the gentle yet firm slide without hitch or slip upon initial contact, the quiet “slish” of smooth surface contact, the emphatic “thunk!” of fingertip tapping piece down into place, and the convergence of color, design, and patterns with the slenderest of outlined gaps between conjoined pairs.
     As far as shapes went, this Japan-made puzzle was old-school—all inner pieces had two “heads”—one on each end, four “arms”, and two “mouths”—one on each side. This made it tougher because shapes weren't so helpful for clues to assembly—it all came down to color and design, pretty much, which to me, made it that much funner.
     Today's puzzles are much easier (so buyers won't get upset and give up in frustration, I suppose) also by their patterned designs. A 2000 piecer of Da Vinci's Last Supper that Mom gave our family was greatly simplified by light purple herringbone patterns superimposed upon the dark blue band that surrounded the painting and served as an internal frame. Even Jaren, once I told him where and how to attempt to fit pieces along a row, was able to do large portions of the border.
     Really, sorting is the only “hard” work in today's puzzles, though my back does ache sitting in a cramped corner on the floor in Penelope's room where the only available work surface to assemble our puzzles is now located: a hard plastic outdoor tabletop, salvaged from street-side, to which I attached short wooden legs so that the table slides easily beneath Penelope's bed frame when not in use. (See my earlier essay titled “Roadside Gems” for further description of this homemade table.)

Bedtime Stories

     My friend Norm advised that when selecting activities for your kids, select those that both they and you enjoy. If only they enjoy it, it won't work. If only you enjoy it, it won't work either.
     This rule has worked excellently for our family, one of the best examples being bedtime stories.  Of course when they were younger, they sat in my lap, each in turn, turning the pages, pointing out and naming objects, counting, and eventually reading aloud when prompted. Runaway favorites that they and I enjoyed included Runaway Bunny, Goodnight Moon, Love You Forever, Beatrix Potter (Peter Rabbit, etc.), and Puff the Magic Dragon, along with Dr. Seuss and Berenstain Bears classics.
     As they got older, I read to them while they scratched my back (because it felt so good and still does). Favorites of my oldest son included James Herriot (All Creatures Great and Small, etc.), The Lord of the Rings, City Boy, Tom Sawyer, Shane, The Remarkable Rocket (Oscar Wilde), Lilies of the Field, A Separate Peace, The Chosen, and Cry the Beloved Country. I am currently reading him the Bible (he's too old to scratch my back, so he sits on the floor), planning to read it cover-to-cover. (We're almost through the book of Joshua.) I love the ancient names, which I pronounce in what I imagine to be a Middle Eastern accent—probably butchering the language, but that's okay, I guess.)
     Penelope enjoyed Gerald Durrell (My Family and Other Animals, etc.), Where the Red Fern Grows, Dewey the library Cat, Marley and Me, The Hobbit, The Book of General Ignorance, The Book of Completely Totally Information, and other general non-fiction (trivia) books. The challenge for her/us was and is to find age-appropriate materials at her advanced reading level. Young adult and adult fiction tends to be far too heavy, sex laden, bitter, ironic, dumb, violent, or otherwise inappropriate. So general trivia often works well, with me censoring/editing as I read (it's amazing how obsessed such books seem to be with the bizarre and macabre—especially as it relates to human or animal sexuality) and stopping often to describe my understanding of the topic. I love it when I learn mind-blowing tidbits, too:

- There aren't a googolplex subatomic particles in the universe—there aren't even a googol. (This was a hot topic in middle school when my classmate explained the vastness of the number by producing pages of hand-written zeros, explaining this number that began with one showed only how may zeros there were in googolplex—a concept I couldn't quite grasp).

- The instant after the Big Bang, all the matter in the universe expanded outward at faster than the speed of light (the physical laws of nature apparently not yet fully operative.)

- It's impossible to physically touch anything due to the repelling force of electrons in all matter. The closest we can come is to sense the repelling force of other objects' electrons (sort of like pushing two magnets together with their North and South poles aligned.) I explained to Penelope we'd need to be in a particle collider, I guess, to achieve true physical contact (with an accelerated particle), although I do consider the subatomic forces within our bodies' atoms to be every bit a part of us, too, so that when they interact with other substances' atomic forces, that's the same as “touching.”

     Jaren has had the most varied taste of all our children (I still let him choose his books). Besides picture book classics, he has at varying times enjoyed math workbooks, Encyclopedia of Dinosaurs (adult level) The Bible, 1001 Food Facts (adult level), Crows of Pear Blossom, The Counting Dictionary, Reader's Digest Explorers Weather, and the Solar System. His favorite non-bedtime reading materials have included Peanuts, Garfield, and Star Wars comics, and also for the brief time we allowed it, Captain Underpants.

     Bedtime stories is one of the few beloved interactive activities that has stuck through all these years—a special time that the kids get to spend on our king-size bed, one-on-one, ranging from ten to thirty minutes each. It's a great way for me to wind down for early bedtime (I'm an early riser) before spending time with my wife beside me on our bed. From reading to them to sleeping, it's one of my favorite times of the day. I pray that they will remember these times with fondness, too.