Happiness

     It seems to me that happiness gets short-shift these days. Pastors tend to downplay it—rightfully so—'cause it often comes and goes depending on circumstances, whereas Godly joy can by present even in the midst of great sorrow, regret, or unhappiness because God's love is constant and infinite so that there's always plenty to be joyful about.

     Whereas when I was a kid, happiness was front and center, the goal and focal point of all major life objectives. It didn't matter what job you ended up with, where you eventually lived, whom you eventually married, how rich you became, or anything else, as long as you were happy (so said parents and adults everywhere).

     The trouble with that was does anyone really know what will make them happy? How often do we hear of someone happy with a job, spouse, house, car, or neighborhood, only to become very upset or disillusioned about it sometime later? Because people change, what makes them happy one moment may not make them happy the next (as in children before and after Christmas when there's almost always a post-holiday let-down).

     Or how often do we hear someone say if only ____, then I'd be happy. Then through hard work, fortuitous circumstances, or howsoever, he or she does obtain ____, only to discover a fleeting happiness if any at all.
     So I've made a conscious effort not to say "as long as it makes you happy" to my kids in regards to their decisions and instead leave it up to them by saying, "It'll be yours to decide", meaning, they get to choose the reasons--whether in pursuit of happiness, admiration, helpfulness, obedience to God (hopefully), or whatever.  In short, it's their lives, so they should be guided by their own goals, desires, and consciences.

     Which reminds me of a conversation regarding happiness that I witnessed decades ago between my college dormmate and his friend. The two were similar in many ways: good-looking, successful with girls, admired by many, excellent at academics and sports, and fairly well-off financially, being sons of successful entrepreneurs. My dormmate's friend concluded a long philosophical conversation (which they often shared) with a prolonged pause and the question, “But would you say you're happy?”

     My roommate smiled, reflected a moment, and said with a mixture of confidence and unease, “Yeah, I'd say I'm happy...” and justified such happiness with forgettable philosophical mumbo jumbo. His friend with jocular laugh and smile said, “F--- y--, brah!” and thudded his back and left.

     Their friendship was based on such raw, rough-stuff exchanges and didn't suffer the least as a result. But it struck me how deeply unhappy my roommate's friend was and how desperately he wished my roommate was equally unhappy, perhaps because misery loves company.

     It was a shared trait with a friend of mine in Seattle who suffered spells of depression, largely due to lack of success with girls. He resented my meager measure of sanguinity and would do what he could to depress me through hurtful or downer statements, or barrages of unproductive garbage or whatever else until I finally confronted him and we talked respectfully and productively henceforth (for the most part).

     Some suggest that proclivities toward happiness, sadness, joy, or depression are largely innate—we're stuck with what we're born with but that anyone dissatisfied can improve through attention to health and soul via social, religious, medical, psychological, and other avenues. It's such a difficult topic 'cause happiness is impossible to define for each individual—it's so subjective, everyone's different, and one man's happiness may be another man's worst nightmare.
     I've found that happiness is often the fortuitous byproduct of living right more so than achievement of a goal, namely the pursuit of happiness.  Can anyone control their emotions or circumstances to ensure happiness?  If so, why aren't there more happy people?  Clearly, the world is full of unhappy people as anyone can observe (at least here in the United States). 
     Despite the difficulties of defining, pursuing, and "achieving" or more accurately obtaining happiness, I find some of the most beautiful phrases ever include: “I've lived a happy life”, “Thanks for giving me a happy childhood”, “You've made me a happy man”, “These past seventeen years have been the happiest of my life”, and “Happy Thanksgiving, let's eat!”

     May we all experience ample measures of happiness and more. 

Vacation Bible School Mission

     Our family just got back from our first mission for any of us ever, this at an outer-island vacation bible school for mostly second-generation immigrants from the South Pacific.

     The forty-five kids served—mostly elementary school age—were warm and well behaved. Our very first full day there, I witnessed a seven-year-old go up to Braden (assigned as a youth leader) and give him a bear hug. Braden was caught off guard but smiled and hugged back with hands against the boy's back. He's not the most huggable guy, so the boy must have had an open generous heart.

     Pene, grouped to participate with middle-schoolers her age, was a big help for the leaders making tie-dye shirts, assisting kids with basket weaving and other projects, and demonstrating games and sports.

     Jaren, also grouped with kids his age, became one of the gang and as the youngest of the mission team that numbered sixteen, got special attention from fellow team members.

     Deanne, assigned to third-graders, mostly helped and participated with generous enthusiasm and led by example.

     I, left unassigned, served as self-appointed roamer, seeking to help those in need and doing what needed to get done 'cause everyone else was too busy. Things I got to do included installing brakes on the bike of the pastor's son, mopping and sweeping muddy/dirty floors, making grocery store runs, driving youth missionaries to and from a beach outing, and singing and dancing along with everyone else during worship.

     It was a fun time had by all and everyone in our family felt it was worth it. Pene and Jaren wished they could stay longer, Jaren getting teary when it came time to say bye to all the other youth missionaries.

     Braden got the most out of it 'cause he stayed the full week versus the two days and two nights for the rest of us. We could have all stayed a week but I felt it would be too much, for when our family experiences prolonged separations sans family alone-time to settle, regroup, and recenter, we tend to suffer sleep deprivation, angst, bad moods, and disrespectful attitudes and behaviors. And staying longer wouldn't have been worth it had it cost family peace, unity, and health. As things turned out, I got an eye infection that immediately upon return required a trip to an ophthalmologist and eye drops for a week—something that I was thankful to do at home versus off-island in the midst of hectic schedules and crowded environments. Also, Braden, upon his return, got very, very, grouchy—no surprise as this happens after all his long away-from-home trips—mostly due sleep deprivation and emotional exhaustion, but also due to fears associated with his growing independence. He did very well on the mission and felt good about it, deservedly so, but he knew he wasn't ready to move out on his own, so to gain reassurance that we were still there for him, he acted up by showing extreme rudeness and disrespect to force us, time and again, to have to discipline him. Ah, the confusing and contradictory life of a teen!—loving, independent, and brimming with confidence one minute, fuming, hissing, and growling over the dumbest thing the next all triggered by Braden's refusal to carry out the simplest of tasks the first time every time. How difficult can it be to wash dishes, get some exercise outside, or stay out of trouble? Based on his reaction, you'd think we'd asked him to remove a kidney.

     Photos from later in the trip showed Braden and fellow missionaries with a kid each on their backs. This to me was the real memorable benefit for us all—bonding with loving souls from less fortunate backgrounds. I doubt whether we directly benefited the life of any individual long-term as no such direct evidence exists, nonetheless because our church has been doing this for five years, perhaps God has used our witness to touch a few hearts. And if God plants seeds, abundance often results.

     Braden shared that at the end of the week, many kids wished the school was longer and asked, “Are you coming back next year?” That appreciation for our ministry and obvious blessings shared—what more could we ask for a first mission trip?

Technology Overload

     Besides not having TV at home (see my prior TV-less Bliss essay), we also don't have Internet access. Well we did for awhile, via out landlord's Wi-Fi, but because of Braden's computer misuse, we asked our landlord to change the password (that Deanne unwisely gave to Braden unbeknown to me with the stern warning “Use only with great discretion.” Well, expecting Braden to exercise great discretion with Internet access is like leaving a room full of cocaine and warning a junkie “Don't touch it.” She did install parental controls for his PC account, but as any teen knows, those can be easily defeated. Almost any sort of movie or video is available on Youtube, for example, and almost any photographic and written material is available on photo sharing websites. Even public library Internet filters are unable to block all such inappropriate material, so I've heard.)
     I never did want Internet access at home for the same reasons I didn't want TV at home: it discourages social interaction and wastes tons of time, and inappropriate material will inevitably be accessed (perhaps by me more than any other). And who wants to be filled with garbage? I often feel like crap after posting to my blog and checking and sending e-mails, which are highly appropriate materials. The reason for these adverse feelings is I hate being on the computer for an hour straight or so. Most frustrating is when I can't get the computer to do what I want it to do, or it does stuff I don't want it to do. I'm not dumb, so my conclusion is that these computer programs or websites are not user friendly.
     The only reason I got an e-mail account is because Braden's Cub Scout den leader required one a decade or so ago. Sure, it's free and super convenient for mass mailings, but the downside is I've read some of the lowest forms of communication ever in some e-mails, with horrendous spellings and grammar, indecipherable meanings, and inane content. Spare me—I've seen far better messages in bathroom graffiti (which seems to be on the wane, probably because kids these days have no need for pens or pencils).
     When I do feel the need for Internet access, I obtain it at work or the public library during lunch breaks. A good week was when I checked personal e-mails only once. Unfortunately, this is rarely possible anymore because of blog posts, essay submissions, and for awhile, urgent church e-mails. (I'm not even sure how I got on that e-mail list. I made it clear from the beginning that I didn't want to be included. I suppose I broke down at a weak point and gave it to them. I've since requested my e-mail address' removal.)
     Braden and Deanne for awhile fed me bovine feces about his having to finish Internet-related homework by the following Monday so we needed to provide him weekend access. I said that that didn't wash because public schools can't force parents to obtain Internet access or favor students with such access, schools must provide ample access for all. “All your Internet-related work must be done at school!” I told him. Sure enough, with all his schools chock full of Internet accessible laptops, teachers and librarians have been happy to provide all the access he's needed during non-class hours. It hasn't been a problem since.
     I find it amusing to read about growing antipathy toward omnipresent and all-consuming technology reliance and engagement. First came the iPods when perhaps half the people I'd see on the bus fooled with these things for awhile, not a single one smiling. Next came iPhones or portable hand held devices for text messaging, playing games, streaming movies or TV shows, listening to music, and such. Again, seldom did I see a smile among them. Whereas when I examined those without these devices who engaged with others, looked about, or even slept, a few at least usually seemed content, or smiled or shared a laugh or pleasant look or exchange with another. To me those were the winners living in the moment, not disengagers staring at images on glass screens, trying to keep up with the latest trend. 
     A recent statistic I read to our family stated that thirty-three percent of people have used a smartphone to appear busy in a restaurant or bar. My observation is that sixty percent of those on the bus using these devices now are playing games, watching movies/TV, or scrolling through lists of who knows what. It seems like a lot of them use it as a disengagement tool to keep others away, a signal not to bother them. I accomplish the same by closing my eyes and trying not to fall too deeply asleep so that I miss my bus stop. For each his own. I'm willing to bet ten years from now, though, no one will be using these devices anymore, just as I don't see anyone using an iPod or Kindle or push button phone or pda anymore, all devises from less than a decade ago. 
     By the way, I'm not opposed to these devices, I just don't think they should be used to avoid or discourage positive or worthwhile engagement with others. And these things can be attention hogs. It was piteous to recently witness parents with two young kids having dinner at a restaurant and their heads were all glued to their own devices, the meal and each other mere afterthoughts. What did that say about them? Did things bode well for their futures? Sure, that meal may have been an anomaly, but judging from their stone-cold expressions, it struck me as ingrained habit, not excited one-time “treats.” And they didn't exchange a single word—very disturbing and sad.
     I suspect a lot more families would be happier with less versus more elective technology in their lives. As with most such niceties, moderation is key, I suppose. 

Aloha State?

     It's amazing how much aloha (love/goodwill/friendliness) Hawaii has retained over the past hundred and thirty years of economic and population growth. I see some every day in courteous drivers that let others cut in, in library patrons that hold the door open for others, in store clerks that walk customers through the store to show where difficult-to-find items are, and in bus drivers that gesture not to deposit money when a passenger forgets for a day his monthly bus pass.

     Praise God the aloha spirit is alive and well!

     I take Hawaii's aloha spirit for granted at times as I do its gorgeous beaches, sunsets, and temperate climate because it's always there and tends to blend into the unnoticed background of everyday life.

     But that makes it all the more jarring and alarming to witness a spate of uncalled-for rudeness in close succession:

• Upon return from an outer-island trip, our family caught a taxi. I asked the driver (age sixties) the approximate fare and he quoted a high (but manageable) price. He said also, “Plus sixty cents for luggage.” As he loaded our one suitcase and three carry-ons in back, he counted the four and said, “Anymore?” I said, “For those small things?” but he didn't answer. As we departed he thrice asked the address even after I told him I didn't know it and instead gave him the name of our church destination and specific driving directions to get there.
  Nonetheless he showed his displeasure and jerked the car about in very aggressive manner (not too uncommon in the profession). As we continued, he announced his race and asked, “What are you?” I ignored the question but he asked again so I said, “Local.” He then asked Pene's age and after I ignored that question he asked again so I said “middle school.” A lecture filled with sentimental nonsense ensued with an admonition directed to Pene, “Don't ever forget that.” Then followed a self-congratulatory eulogy of his merciful nature, including three profane hand gestures directed at me (as if I were him on the receiving end). I wasn't offended but had by then long wearied of his inept attempts at warm-heartedness and poor taste and off-kilter banter.
  At our destination, I gave him the metered fare plus ten percent, which I consider standard (on work trips, this is the maximum my employer will reimburse). He groused thrice with great bitterness about the small tip so I said, “Okay, give me five dollars back” (which left him a twenty percent tip), then he groused twice more that he'd expected more (his initial quoted estimate).
  During our drive over he'd said he arrived from Asia four years prior so I suppose that may explain his “ream 'em” attitude. (All other local cab drivers I've ever had have all been appreciative of whatever tips they'd received and rarely charged for baggage, much less carry-ons. In hindsight, even from the outset, the guy didn't seem very happy, with permanent scowl lines etched in his face.)
  
• At a major retailer recently, I was paying by check and the machine I was asked to sign suddenly froze up. The store clerk whined, “It's because you hit the button.” I said “I didn't do anything, I just grabbed the pen and accidentally touched the screen.” She fiddled puzzled with the cash register and whined again about my hitting the button. I said, “I didn't do anything. Can't you just cancel it?” She said,” I tried, but it won't take it. It's because you hit the button.” I said with a chuckle, “That's not my problem it's yours.”  “You have to pay some other way,” she said with a final sigh. I said, “No I don't.” She whined about my hitting the button again and finally my check went through. Her lips curled, she passed me the receipt sans apology or thank you, acting as if her extended hand was peace offering enough (and proof that she didn't deserve firing.) 

• At a big box retailer with atrocious long, disorganized check-out lines and slow service, Pene and I stood with our shopping cart five customers away from our line's register. The two clerks manning it were ridiculously slow (after twelve minutes, they were still working on the same customer that had only three items.) So I told Pene “stay here” while I waited with an item in hand in an adjacent line that was at least moving. Not much later, a store clerk announced to customers nearby in now ten-deep lines, “there's a shorter line here behind this gentlemen” (me). An aggressive (middle-age) guy with a shopping cart wove past others that had been waiting far longer than he had to take the coveted spot. Five minutes later, I could see that mine was the speedier line, so I called Pene over, who brought our cart along with her. I heard muttered behind my back, “You must be pleased with yourself,” but chose to ignore it. I later heard the guy behind me complain to a store clerk “...he cut in front!...” I said, with a gesture “Go! Go ahead,” and with a hand toward Pene said, “she was with me.” As he cut around, the store clerk thanked me with an apologetic look. After she went, he snapped over his shoulder (while avoiding eye contact), “Don't ever do that again! That's very rude!”
  I reckoned it was a judgment call whether splitting up and waiting in separate lines then jumping to the shorter line was kosher or not. It certainly made sense—first come first served versus tough-luck-if-you-chose-the-slow-line, better-luck-next time! And though I never had that problem before, perhaps next time I'll reconsider.

• On the bus the other day a common occurrence occurred: A number of seated passengers got off at a bus stop, then an impromptu game of musical chairs ensued as dissatisfied (seated) passengers dove for more desired (vacated) seats. An elderly gentlemen took a window seat toward the front. A middle-age man came forward from behind, shook his head as he looked at him, and muttered as he passed, “Yeah, way to go!” as if he'd stolen his seat, and continued to shake his head in disgust as he took a vacant seat further up, still muttering.

     The last two gentlemen mutterers may have had mental issues. (Does that excuse rudeness? They weren't muttering prior to the incidents or much long after.) Regardless, it's apparent that Honolulu is becoming an increasingly rude and unfriendly place. I've noticed it since 1990; my wife's noticed it since arriving later in that decade. Where it's headed is not difficult to see with so many struggling families, burgeoning homelessness, explosive (and extortionate) costs of living, laws favoring the wealthy and fleecing the voiceless poor and middle-class, and ever growing immigrant populations.

      Too bad, it's just such poor and struggling middle-class populations and immigrants that from the late 1800's on, transformed these islands into the beautiful melting pot Aloha State it now is. With the continuing changes and pressures, though, Hawaii's “aloha” may not survive. I hope it will, but Honolulu residents are increasingly looking and acting like U.S. Mainland counterparts. That's not all bad, but it's far from the Hawaii I've known and loved all these years.

      Live aloha, Honolulu, before aloha—like grass skirts, plentiful fish and opihi, cheap rice and poi, reasonable commutes, ample parking, and affordable housing—becomes a relic of the past, irrecoverable and sorely missed. 

Exercise

     Widespread recreational exercise is obviously a modern phenomenon, born of wealthy, idle societies.

     In the not-too-distant past (and in some parts of the underdeveloped world today), everyday living required tons of exercise working the fields, caring for livestock, hunting, fishing, transporting goods, carrying produce and water, and everything else needed just to survive.

     With the exception of professional athletes; farm, construction, mining laborers and the like; and others out in the field or walking the streets, few Americans today get anywhere near enough exercise from their jobs alone. Most, for good health (and perhaps happiness) require supplemental recreational exercise. Yet few Americans choose to get it.

     Not I. I love to exercise, walking to and from the bus stop, during lunch breaks, and after dinner on non-workout days. Workouts consist of three or so mile runs every third day. I feel so much more relaxed after exercise that I've even started walking on weekend mornings to give my mind and body an early release from excess energy (stress) I've been lately feeling.

     Conversely, none others in my family engage in voluntary exercise as a rule—they have to be told to go outside and get some exercise. Otherwise they stay all day indoors reading (all four), crocheting (Pene and Deanne), getting in trouble (Braden and Jaren), playing with toys (Jaren), or cooking or doing the laundry (Deanne).

     Upon being sent out, Jaren enjoys himself well enough by riding the scooter or bike, running around the house ten to fifteen times, kicking a soccer ball, or wandering about while engaging in imaginary play.

     Penelope tolerates it by riding scooter in the carport and driveway, jumping rope, or running around the house.

     Braden loathes it, usually doing only the minimum we demand of him (running around the house ten times or jumping rope a hundred times). If left to his own, he'll dribble a ball around or bounce a tennis ball on a racket until he tires in ten to fifteen minutes, then read, talk, or get in trouble with Jaren.

     Not that he's the only exercise cheat: they all sit around and read or talk after they tire of being active and thus fall way below the daily recommended minimal exercise levels—not even close most days for moderate exercise.

     But even so I know they get far more exercise than their peers who aren't enrolled in competitive sports or martial arts, swimming, or other such lessons. I know this because Pene's P.E. teacher once complimented her on her fitness level and asked her, “How do you stay fit?”

     “My dad makes us go outside and exercise,” she said.

     “And you do?” he asked incredulous.

     “Yeah,” she said.

     Just the fact that he asked “And you do?” tells me that parents rarely force their kids to get any real at-home exercise.

     This, to me, is sad. I taught all our kids to swim and ride bike because these, plus running, can be pursued with lifelong passion—the best individual athletic exercises there are: joyful, healthy, inexpensive, convenient, and fun. Doing them always improves my outlook. And I see how much calmer and yet more alert they, too, are after vigorous exercise. It's a joy to be alive after such effort, cool down, and recovery.

     Deanne's not into it. There's a one in seven chance she'll agree to an after-dinner walk and only after sighs and slammed books, chairs, or other objects acted out upon. And the walks themselves sometimes feel more like trips to a dentist than pleasure strolls.

     My mom was inactive like that when I was still living at home (and we didn't eat very healthy diets, either). Praise God her health held up and she took up golf in her sixties and her diet's improved substantially. At age eighty-three, she's still walking all eighteen holes at least twice a week at a hilly golf course (I've done it before; its tiring) so she's terrific healthy for her age.

     I pray that my immediate family maintains its token level of fitness and that God will protect us all, like Mom, until the day when all of us come to enjoy exercising voluntarily. And may that day come sooner rather than later for all our sakes.

Time

     Ecclesiastes is one of my favorite books ever. In it, Solomon—one of history's wealthiest, wisest, and most successful and powerful rulers—laments the senselessness of life, mainly due to its brevity and the inconsequentiality of achievement compared to vast eternity, fore and aft. This comforts me, for if life is indeed a wisp and we're all racing for our graves and before we know it we'll be on our deathbeds wondering, “Where did all the time go?”, then this simplifies matters—no need to worry about any silly worldly nonsense, just focus on God today and obey him and his higher purpose to help others.

     Though I fail miserably at this at times and waste abhorrent amounts of time and effort, even Solomon stressed the importance of eating, drinking and enjoying life and work, so it's not as if all frivolity is bad.

     Upon graduating high school three years hence, Braden will (most probably) be leaving us to attend college or join the military—a lot depends on his academics both in regards to grades and attitude, but also on his behavior—getting his act together overall. He's progressed miles over the past several months but still has a ways to go... Until then, time will flit by in an instant. I look forward to his leaving—his growing independence, even while knowing I'll miss him terribly.

     My mom (in her eighties) has started to complain of the speediness of time and her desire to slow it down by not having too many interactions with outer-island relatives all in a row. “Spread them out!” she says, “Otherwise the weeks just fly by...”

     Andy Rooney once said that it doesn't seem fair that in the midst of fun and joy, time speeds up, whereas in the midst of boredom, misery, or sorrow, it slows to a crawl.

     John Steinbeck in East of Eden posited otherwise, saying that in the midst of unchanging sameness, decades can slip by unnoticed, whereas in the midst of change and variety, time slows because each event represents a signpost or landmark against which progress is marked and measured.

     I see their points but time to me as a parent always speeds by and I can't believe how much taller and larger the kids are now compared to just five years ago and am astonished whenever I look at such not-so-distant photos that happen to be posted in our kitchen by the phone.

     More relevant to me than the speed of time, however, is my tendency to live in, or more accuracy, get preoccupied with the future, even though it's impossible to live anywhere but in the present. So to counteract this sometimes unproductive tendency, I try to seize opportunities to make the most of the present while the kids are still around.

     On the Fourth of July weekend I took Jaren (Braden, and Pene rode and met us there on their bikes) to the nearby elementary school to ride bike, play croquette and mini putt-putt, play on the playground, and shag a practice golf ball. I brought along my sand wedge and putter, the only clubs I saved from an old set that I gave away long ago.

     Rainy weeknights after dinner when we can't go for walks, we've played Scrabble using Deanne's egg timer with one minute allowed per person per turn—speeds things up and makes it more fun.

     One recent weekend afternoon we hand washed and scrubbed our family car, a twice yearly activity since we're not car enthusiasts.

     On a day I took off from work to recuperate from a church overnight outing, the morning and early afternoon the kids were out at Summer Fun seemed to drag interminable. So partly to kill time, I cleaned a restroom, polished a pair of shoes, paid bills, cleaned a few dirty shelves in the refrigerator, vacuumed floors, and later cut my hair. It was a blessed relief to finally pick them up at the park and hear how their days went.

     In the midst of my sister's wedding, my mom fretted about some irrelevancy—this just before the ceremony proper began, so I told her (we were alone at the time) “Try to enjoy it while it lasts.” She settled after that and seemed to enjoy herself better.

     I suppose I should take my own advice by more often enjoying the here and now while it lasts, for like my sister's wedding twenty years ago, it will soon be over before I even realize it.  

Integrity

     It's such a heavy topic: Integrity. What does it even mean? Staying true to one's self? Walking the talk? Doing right even when no one is watching?

     I fail in so many ways in each of the above, yet am drawn to pursue a life of integrity as it seems the basis of so much that is good, noble, admirable, and worthy. I felt so strongly about it that I recently wrote a poem titled The Key that got published (see http://www.metrohnl.com/the-key/) whereby a found key tempts a fictional narrator to exchange his soul for whatever he desires. For him it's untold earthly wealth and admiration, which, obtained, comes at the cost of lost conscience, innocence, integrity, family, and relationship with God: It's a dark parable warning against selling oneself.

     I let Braden and Penelope read it but not Jaren as he's too young, and explained how we're all given choices, temptations, and demands to sell our souls for money, companionship, fame—anything we want. And I described how I'd been asked to sign documents I knew were false. And how I'd witnessed coworkers sign off—no hesitation—these same documents they knew were false. And all for what? To please a supervisor? They weren't even up for promotion. Their integrities meant nothing to them, no more than worthless trash. And I warned against selling their souls to anyone or for anything: Nothing's worth it, I said.

     One of the costs of doing shameful deeds, I explained, is having to duck people—those you've wronged or who know what you've done. There are some higher-ups at my workplace who avoid being seen outside for this very reason, guys who duck people left and right. So what if they're supposedly rich or powerful (they're not) if they don't have the freedom to go where they want or do what they want for fear of being seen?

     And I told them a story I heard on NPR of a former drug user that chose to coach a local little league baseball team because by helping, getting to know, and befriending little kids he knew he'd never go back to doing drugs again. “How pathetic would that be, a big forty year old guy like me sneaking around in back alleys and ducking around corners to avoid being seen by a seven year old kid? I'd never allow myself to fall that low,” he said. Good for him, I said, that he had the courage to do what he had to to stay clean.

     Doctor Canivet in the novel Madame Bovary, called in to help fix a botched operation, strides in assured in the knowledge that his conduct has always been wholly irreproachable. That passage struck me. I have relatives like that—humble straight-talkers always out for the good of others. And to the contrary I've know hangdogs who show guilt in their every step. And others still who flaunt their selfish, hurtful intentions and ways. Not that a person can be judged by appearances alone or that anyone is perfect, but that passage made me evaluate which group I wished to belong to. And which group I'd like my kids and family to belong to.

     Although I'm guilty of countless sins and shameful deeds, I nevertheless strive to care and hold onto truth and hope. Benefits have included an easier conscience, freedom to be myself, and good nights' sleeps. I can't imagine living the life of the sell-out narrator in my poem.

Pets

     All of the rentals we ever stayed at prohibited pets, so our kids never had that experience. Too bad for them (and us), but it made our jobs tons easier, especially since the prohibition was a done deal—no pets meant no pets. So they never bothered to beg.

     We fudged the rules a few times. Once, my wife's brother got Braden a fighting fish from Chinatown and we kept it in a glass jar for a couple of weeks or so, after which we passed it on to the building superintendent for adoption. Wasn't exactly cute or cuddly, but we had fun feeding it live roaches and worms. (It started out beautiful indigo blue, then turned reddish-brown apparently matching the color of its food.)

     Another time Braden caught a tiny lime-green praying mantis at church, so I told him to hold it in a cup until we got home, then we'd keep it in a box and feed it grasshoppers. I'd done the same as a kid to fantastic results: the pair of mantises gobbled down the grasshoppers I fed them one after another for a couple of weeks or so. Then I saw them one afternoon one on top of another, so I tried to separate them only to discover they were attached! Shocked, I left them alone and went in to watch T.V. I later came out and saw on the floor of the box the wings and legs of an otherwise missing mantis, a dead toppled over mantis beside it, and a white gummy-looking wad stuck in the crook of a branch. Never got to watch them hatch out, though, as a neighbor friend took my box, said he'd call me when they hatched, but never did.

     Sadly, my kids and I couldn't find any grasshoppers even in wild grassy areas nearby. Shocking! The vacant lots behind our house in Hilo had had tall pili and California grass that shimmered with springing throngs of grasshoppers any time we touched any of the tall stalks. I attributed the present desolate state to indiscriminate use of pesticides—no wonder native fauna doesn't thrive. And the mantis didn't take any of the assorted live roaches, beetles, and other insects we offered it and died within a week.

     The same thing happened to a lizard Braden kept in a large bottle.

     So as kids, they of course love the cat and dog pets of friends and family. We don't get many invitations to such households, though, so any neighborhood pet that happens to pass by our house or which we pass by during our walks are their main pet contacts.

     Now here's an area Deanne and I diverge: I love cats for their elegance and selectivity such that they only come to you if they trust and accept you. I'm patient and know how to wait and accept rejection—same as when I courted girls.

     Whereas Deanne loves dogs, her pet English Cocker Spaniel (pedigree!) being her first “true” love.

     So when I take the kids for walks, we call for cats to come in high falsetto: “Meow...Here kitty, kitty, kitty.” Only two come—one if she's close by, the other, a recent find, almost always. The second is a slender gray Siamese, with blue pupils that are almost round! I've always been attracted to cats with colored eyes because the two we'd own were both black with a white splotch and black eyes, and of the strays and mixed breeds we ever saw nearly all had black eyes.

     Deanne, by contrast, dives head first into a neighborhood dog's face and scruffs its ears and counts it blessing if she gets licked all over her face and lips, and tail-whipped as her new best friend circles her as the owner does pirouettes to prevent leash entanglement.  Most dog-owning neighbors tolerate our kids' attentions for a few minutes, I suppose because the dogs get too excited and that ruins a good walk, not that I've noticed a significant difference before and aft.

     I promised Deanne if we ever move to the mainland and buy a house, she can have her dog and maybe we'll get a cat—either or both kept outdoors. Both my childhood cats were kept outdoors, and that worked fine and made sense to me. (Our indoor parakeet was a wonder of affection, our first pet that eventually got eaten—out in our laundry room—by a neighborhood cat or mongoose late one night. We awoke to find the fallen cage and a few of his feathers, plus points of blood. The room's door hadn't been closed properly; my parents felt awful.)

     There's no rush for us as parents to acquire a pet, though for our kids to have that childhood experience, time is running out fast. I suppose no one can have it all. And our kids have plenty to compensate, including each other and us.

Hugs

     I'm a five-hugs-a-day guy. I feel better, do better, and am better when I get this daily minimum allowance.

     When the kids were young, this was no problem, either because they wanted more (especially Braden) or they had no choice—we could hold them at will.

     But things changed fast, especially for Pene, and by the time she was a toddler, she made very clear when she wasn't in the hugging or cuddling mood by stiff-arming my chest with both her hands, leaning back, and turning her head away.

     I tease her now about her evading my hugs and say, “You hurt my feelings when you did that! It's as if you were saying, 'Stay away from me, I don't want any of that!'”

     She smiles to such remarks, of course not remembering a thing. Which brings me to today's standings:

• Deanne will share a hug with me in mornings before I leave for work and usually in bed at night before I fall asleep at around eight-fifteen.

• Jaren shares a close hug with me at bedtime and will happily share more when asked. At seven years old he's getting big for climbing aboard my lap at bedtime, but neither of us mind, so I'm not telling.

• Pene, a grown reproductive-capable woman at age twelve now gives me air hugs (sans chest-to-chest contact) at bed time. I'm currently reading the Lord of the Rings to her, which we both enjoy so much, and we feel so close, that though I miss closer hugs, I'm not pressing it. When I was about her age, my parents (especially Mom 'cause Dad was never much of a hugger) stopped hugging me on a daily basis because I preferred it that way (with some later regreta). And it worked okay with us and I believe that that's where Pene's at with me now, needing her space. (On more than a couple occasions, I've asked Deanne to remind Pene to keep behind closed doors when changing and not bend over when wearing revealing tops. It's all lady-stuff she needs to be aware of, so now's as good a time as any to learn. I suspect this lady awareness also includes not pressing so close to Dad...)

• Braden receives almost no hugs from us. This has been going on for years. I don't feel the desire to hug him, perhaps because we've had so many ugly fights, or perhaps because he's adopted sloppy dress and appearance as his default style, or perhaps because he often smells odoriferous, or perhaps because he doesn't want to be hugged because he values independence and autonomy above hugs, which he may consider mainly “for little kids.”

     Funny how at age fifty-three I'm far from being a little kid yet feel the need for hugs at least as often as Jaren. My closest and longest and most intimate hugs are now shared with Deanne. In the mornings, when we hug and Deanne prays for me while I stroke her hair, back, and arms—my way of saying bye to her—I allow myself to draw strength from her.

     Some may say it's not right to draw strength from her and that I should instead draw all my strength from God. But then the Bible makes clear it's good to be with another. For in the event one falls, the other may assist. And I so often these days feel as if I were falling-mostly due to assorted health maladies.

     It's too bad hugging isn't more widely accepted. Even elementary school teachers here in the Aloha State (or “Love” State), where hugging and adorning visitors with lei has so long been a cultural norm, and where hugs from “Aunties” and “Uncles” (adult friends, or acquaintances) are generally accepted, seem to restrict hugs to only the youngest keiki (kids), seemingly in fear of accusations of fondling or inappropriate touch.

     In church, too, it's all air hugs if any at all.

     And even in our extended ohana (family), only Mom still gives me close hugs. (My brother-in-law's sister touches her ear and/or cheek to mine while we air hug, which is nice, but interesting—first time I've experienced it, maybe a new way of doing it that I just didn't know about.)

     And at my workplace, hugging is virtually taboo due to sexual harassment fears and concerns. (In Japan, coworkers on company outings may relax at onsen (hot springs resorts), soaking together nude—same sex only, of course. Wonder how that would play in America? Although once, while working at a CPA firm we males all showered together after playing in a tennis tournament in preparation for our company banquet, but that was in Seattle where locker room etiquette is different from here...)

     On the flip side, while it's true that we don't want to open things up (especially for our kids) to potential abuse, I nonetheless believe that something is lost when people of any age don't receive ample hugs and that the world would be a far better place would everyone receive more than enough. It's simple. Easy. Free. And so healthy and beneficial. Why not indulge more?

Tithing

     Tithing's tough for most. I served as a church accountant for awhile and counting tithes and preparing annual tithing statements were among my responsibilities so I had a pretty good idea who was and wasn't tithing their full ten percent. Perhaps ten to fifteen percent of congregants did. And we had a very generous church.

     About that time I attended a seminar on church finances and the instructor said that only about fifteen percent of clergy tithe their full ten percent. Incredible! Perhaps this is why so many clergy find tithing such a difficult topic to preach?

     The thing about tithing that makes it seem so difficult at times is that when we have little we choose to believe we can't afford it. And when we have a lot we wonder at having to give soooo much!

     Most Christians are aware that the only place in the bible where God allows man to test him is in tithing: “Test me in this,” says the Lord Almighty, “and see if I throw open the floodgates of Heaven and pour out so much blessings that you will not have room enough for it.” Based on my observations, it seems that this passage is always taken as suggestive, meaning God is in essence saying, If you feel like it, try it.

     But no clergy I ever heard said that based on the nuances of the original Hebrew text that this is the proper interpretation. In fact all the Bible versions that I've ever read of this verse in Malachi seem to suggest that God may be commanding us to test him in this. Should we?

     To my great chagrin, I confess that for the first time ever, I (and my family by extension) are tithing our full ten percent. A pastor said that when you do this, something breaks. When he said it, his hand motions suggested the breaking of a chop stick, pencil, or bone. And he obviously meant it in a positive way: we at that moment break our stubborn self-reliance and trust in money and instead turn to God, who is worthy of our trust.

     I have no regrets.

     God has opened doors for us, assigning us more active roles in church, and most importantly to me, allowing us to serve as a family. Deanne and I got to serve as ushers for a month collecting tithes and attendance sign-in sheets. Our pastor gave me a bass guitar to play with the Keiki worship band, which my kids participant in. And we are all traveling to an outer island to serve mostly second-generation underprivileged immigrant youth as missionaries at a vacation bible school. Braden will stay the entire week, whereas the rest of us will stay for two days and two nights (at my request, because I doubted we'd hold up well as a family much longer). It'll be a first mission trip for each of us and we are excited and blessed to be part of it. We requested to be considered for inclusion, and through God's abundant provision, we got invited and our payment portion will be minuscule due to generous scholarships.

     I also got asked to give a five minute explanation to the congregation on why I come to church, which will be part of a lesson on stewardship. I have a script, and a plan, and though by nature I hesitate to do such things, I feel at peace about this one, as if it'll turn out right. Please pray for me.

     I think it's true that I had to break a certain resistance to tithe fully, but once the decision was made, I've felt stress-free and nice about it ever since. And these feelings have carried over to other areas of my life, too—amazing how that works!

     And I've seen blessings in other unexpected ways: our family feels tighter/closer. I found a book of quirky but sometimes profound facts (Conversation Sparks) that we take turns reading after dinner. It's been fun and constructive, giving everyone a chance to contribute.

     Braden for the first time ever got near straight A's (except for one bad grade in music caused by non-attendance at after-school events due to discipline reasons—see my prior Expectations essay, regarding).

     Braden's scoliosis (fifteen percent curvature) is stable, so he doesn't need intervention or treatment (such as wearing a brace at night), though he still slouches (as do I, unfortunately, at times).

     All is not perfect, however, Deanne was notified that she won't be returning as a teacher's aide next year, so she's hunting for a job now.

     Our sole car is giving hints of trouble, and taking cars in for repairs is a sore point for me (having suffered at the hands of numerous dishonest mechanics).

     And our immediate and extended family continues to suffer assorted maladies and travails in health, relationships, job dissatisfaction, and other areas too numerous to mention.

     No one said tithing will get us to heaven.

     But the bible does say in Matthew, “Where your treasures are, so too shall your heart be.” Indeed, giving the full tithe has drawn me closer to God, perhaps closer than ever, which certainly is the greatest blessing of all.

Portion Controls

     It's amazing how easily people can get accustomed to super-sized meal portions—remnant survival instincts from days of scarcity. But here in America, it's rare that anyone has to face malnutrition due to a lack of calories. To the contrary, American diets all too often have an excess of calories, and in the rare occasions when nutritional deficiencies do occur, it's usually due to poor food choice versus lack of healthy options.

     Our family eats well-balanced, nutritious meals, but for a while our portion controls were lacking. Every meal was an all-you-can-eat buffet with the refrigerator and cupboards open for the taking if the meal preparations ran low. Deanne and I still controlled what was eaten, but everyone decided how much to eat.

     This worked fine when the kids were younger as God has blessed our kids (and me) with tall, slim builds. They all averaged about fiftieth percentile in weight, seventy-fifth percentile in height, and they were physically active with P.E. at school and work-outs at home. Pene also had joined cross country, then track and Braden walked to and from his bus stops totaling about two-thirds mile each way.

     But as they aged and Braden's and Pene's growth spurts slowed, P.E. got replaced by Health, track season ended, Braden got resistant to exercising outside, and their appetites remained unchanged, then they started putting on extra weight on their butts, and around their faces, necks, and waists. First to experience this all-of-a-sudden change was Braden. Our former trim, large-boned boy (now size 10+ shoes) was filling out in not so muscle bound-looking ways. I once asked him if had jelly-butt.

     No, he said.

     I said, I'm going to test it with my foot. He was sitting sideways on the floor at the time and it looked like a rounded muffin. But was it solid muscle or padded fat? My foot, fortunately, did not sink in. He smiled and I said, “Not so bad,” but it still had an excess of insulation that needed losing.

     First to go were anything-goes afternoon snacks. I never allowed such indulgences other than finishing leftover dinner, or, air sandwiches. An air sandwich is one which we make and eat together. “Okay, what kind of bread do you want?” I ask. “Alright sourdough, yummy! Here's the bread...” I pretend to open a bag and pull out two slices. “You, too. Do the same.” We go through the motions, adding all the fixin's, and finally grab the smashed down bundle in our two hands, open wide, and pretend to shove it in, take a bite, chew, and swallow. Whenever, I say “air sandwich” or “eat your leftovers” now, they know they're not getting anything more. Deanne for awhile indulged them, but then she too got fed up with their eat-as-a-form-of-entertainment and just about quit allowing it too, thank God.

     Next to go were the seconds, thirds, and fourths at dinner. Braden was not pleased. “I'm hungry,” he'd say with—I don't know how he did it—sunken, desolate, I'm-on-the-verge-of-dying eyes. But having inspected his packed-full plate before dinner, I knew he was exaggerating, for whenever he went hiking with the scouts, he ate far less and never complained to them how hungry he still was. In short, he was testing our resolve. So, no problem, I held my ground, and explained how his stomach needed shrinking. And how some former high school athlete classmates of mine who quit working out after high school put on tons of weight fast because they didn't reduce their food consumptions to match. And that I didn't want that to happen to him.

     His deprivation act continued for a few meals until I told him, “I'll tell you what Grandma used to tell me—it's the nicest way I know how to put it: 'You've had enough.'” I said it with calm knowing and gave a nod as if that was that. Since then, he's seldom given me attitude about food insufficiency.

     Pene, when it was her turn to return to normal size portions, got teary a couple of times, but then she adjusted and has been fine since.

     I, too, used to stuff myself silly every delicious meal for awhile, but then realized how uncomfortable it made feel and look, that I didn't want to set the bad example, that it wasn't healthy, and that it made me feel sooo sleepy, so I adjusted and haven't felt the least bit deprived.

     So we're once again trim and stable and content with enough.  In meals as in many other things in life, sometimes less is more.  

Choosing Wisely

     While reading to Pene the “fairy tale” described in my prior Rest essay, I edited out details of the couple's difficult childhoods—hers with an abusive, distant father who developed mental illness and a mother who enabled his psychotic delusions, and his with parents who dumped him without warning or explanation at an abusive English boarding school on the opposite side of India where he spent his later formative years.

     I explained to Pene how sometimes it happens this way that a pair's attraction is based largely on shared miseries.

     Or, sometimes the opposite occurs, I told her, whereby both guy and girl have happy childhoods and this draws them together such as for childhood sweethearts Uncle Thomas and Auntie Susan who met at a Buddhist convention during high school.

     I continued to explain that for my parents, Grandma had a happy childhood growing up with her dad and five sisters, Auntie Bea raising them all. Whereas Grandpa had a difficult childhood. When Grandma first met Grandpa, he was so shy she had to draw him out of his shell. It worked and in our family, Grandma often was strong when Grandpa was weak.

     Mom and I are similar, I said. Mom had a challenging childhood and yet, she was able to forgive and move on with optimism—just like Grandpa. I admired her for that, knowing it was courageous and warm-hearted of her, so opposite my ex-girlfriend that I was engaged to—thank God she broke it off—that also had a difficult childhood, but who never forgave the men in her life so that she was forever bitter deep inside and felt she always had to be in control and could never trust men again.

     I paused and gathered my thoughts before continuing. For awhile, I said, I wanted a wife who was this, this, this, this, and this—all these things that she'd bless me with. Then, it was as if God said, “Tim, rather than looking for someone who will bless you the most, you should be looking for someone whom you can bless the most.”

     After that, my whole perspective changed. Not that I suddenly sought the neediest person around—I'm not equipped for that so that wouldn't be such a blessing for her, but someone who wasn't perfect, either. After all, I'm far from perfect—no one is. So someone whom I could bless without regard to how much she would bless me. For the greatest blessings come not from receiving but from what? I asked.

     Giving, she said.

     And one day you'll have the choice to marry a guy with a happy childhood and bless each other and others. Or, you could marry someone with a less fortunate family background and bless him with yours. It'll be your choice.

     What we have is rare, Pene. We stay home, eat dinner together every night, go to church as a family, say bedtime prayers, go for walks, take family vacations, talk all the time—that's rare. It's the only life you know, so you probably think that everyone has it. I used to think that. All my childhood friends had close families, too, so I assumed it was normal. But it's not. I learned in the college dorms that the so-called prototypical happy family life is anything but. Guys told me, “I haven't seen my father in years,” or “I don't get along with my dad.” A girl I dated had no parents—she'd been orphaned young. “I have a brother,” she said, “that I haven't seen in years. He's the 'dark sheep' in the family.” And I've had countless friends with divorced parents—like Uncle Grant. It's tough, really tough.

     Several days later, after remembering something I'd forgotten to share with Braden when lecturing him about lying (see my prior Lying essay for more, regarding), I called him outside and said, “One thing more about the need to always tell the truth. This is something Grandma once told me: 'Honesty is the basis for all trust. Without trust, there can be no love.'

     “It's a truism and I agree with it. I had a girlfriend once who always lied. Everything out of her mouth was a lie. She lied so much that I knew that the truth was always opposite what she said. But with that loss of trust, the love went, too. After awhile you just can't love someone you can't trust because it'll hurt too much—disappointment after disappointment after disappointment after disappointment.

     “There are people who live this way all the time—at home, at work, with friends, spouses, children and at church—everywhere nothing but lies! They live empty, wasted lives because they don't have love.” I shook my head. “What's the point? Love is a big part of what makes life worth living. It's your choice. Choose wisely.” I nodded and walked away.

     It had been emotional, moving subjects for me. Braden's eyes shone bright while listening, not unlike Pene's. But how they turn out only God knows. I pray every night they become a man and woman of God.

     Raising children—it's one of the greatest acts of faith there is, somewhat akin to trusting God, I sometimes believe. I told my friend Norm once, “I have an analogy I know you're going to hate—.”

     “You're right I hate it,” he said.

     Then I shared with him the above, saying who knows what's going to happen to their kids? They may grow up to chop our heads off in our sleep. 

     What I didn't get to say was, If we can trust our imperfect kids, why can't we trust God?

A Day To Remember

     About a couple weeks ago, I saw Auntie Susan in a dream (for background, see my prior essays In Memoriam: Aunt Susan and Memorial Services for Elders). She was vibrant and healthy again, with her pleasing raspy voice and encouraging and open words and eyes that showed concern only for others. The vision comforted and warmed me even as I wakened and couldn't recall anything more.
     I had been considering whether to take Jaren for his pre-Memorial Day scouting activity of laying leis at Punchbowl Memorial Cemetery (where active duty war veterans and their spouses are interred) and visiting our three relatives there: Auntie Susan, her Korean War veteran husband Uncle Thomas—who predeceased her by three years, and Korean War veteran Uncle Roland, who died in the 1980s in an overseas tragedy. 
     It had been over a year since Auntie Susan had died, and we hadn't yet visited either her or Uncle Thomas's markers, so I felt it was time.
     But there was a scheduling conflict with church on Sunday, so on the following slow Memorial Day morning, we all went and ended up parked a half-mile away (because it would be crowded at the cemetery), coincidentally beside another cemetery—this one upon a steep, ungraded slope covered with two-foot-tall weeds. Its numerous dilapidated head stones—some tottering at odd angles, some weathered and darkened with mold, most with Chinese lettering—had dates of the birth as far back as the 1800s. I noted a few of these to the kids but kept quiet about the sad paucity of flowers or other indications of recent visitors.
     Fifteen minutes later, we ascended the final approach to Punchbowl's entrance past a dozen three-foot-tall flags on seven-foot masts fluttering in the wind. One caught my face and Jaren said, “There's probably a lot of flags inside. 
     “Yup,” I said, “There'll be plenty.”
     “Maybe more than ten.”
     “You'll see,” I said, knowing each of the cemetery's thirty-four thousand markers would be adorned with flag and lei. 
     Bagpipes, one of the most maligned, mocked, and oft-ridiculed instruments around, especially as portrayed in numerous Monty Python sketches and the like, greeted us as we crested the hill and entered the cemetery proper. The instrument was held by a uniformed soldier standing roadside and as he commenced playing, the reedy, deep-pitched drone and high-pitched nasal squeals so unique to the instrument issued forth and I smiled ironically that this instrument had been the one selected to honor the dead on this most somber of occasions. We crossed the street opposite where he stood and I hummed along, picking out low bass and baritone notes, and shortly after we passed within a foot of him, he stopped playing, apparently because he had just been warming up or tuning/testing his instrument.
     At the nearby office we obtained maps to our relatives' sites and took a restroom break prior to walking the hundred yards to Uncle Roland's marker, which required some search even though we'd been there before and had a general idea of its vicinity because there were just so many identical markers! The locator numbers at the top lefts were often obscured by fallen leaves or overgrown grass, so we called out visible ones as we got nearer.  
     Now by saying that locator numbers were obscured, I'm not suggesting slovenliness or lack of maintenance. On the contrary, what Mom told us when we were kids still applies: “The best maintained parks (in Hawaii) are national parks. Next come state parks. The worst are county parks—especially the restrooms.” In addition to being national “park” clean, then, the Punchbowl Cemetery distinguishes itself with its peace and beauty; immaculate lawns, copious trees, and unmarred markers that are relaid level as necessary; and orderliness so apt for one of our state's most dignified final resting sites. Our extended family feels blessed to have our own buried there. 
     Prior to leaving our house, I had our kids choose and bring along a hand-made gift or toy they had lying around, so when we got to Uncle Roland's site Braden placed his beaded gecko toy in the lush grass alongside the lei and standing mini-flag. It was nice to see a vase of flowers there, probably left by Aunt Charlene, his wife, and I said a short prayer. 
     In the distance at the memorial's central plaza a band played a short piece before a small crowd seated beneath an open canopy, and two fighter jets thundered low and slow overhead.
     As we ascended the slope toward the mauka side of the cemetery where the columbarium was, the spot where Aunt Susan's final burial service had been came into view and it began to hit me—even as a cool breeze swept through on its course to the sea and the bagpiper, with quiet, slow dignified steps, belted out a sad, sweet tune—that I yearned to see Aunt Susan yet living. And it overwhelmed me—the gestures, place, time and remembrances that all came together in a sort of earthly perfection of loving heartache, causing me to feel both happy and sad at the same time. Tears blurred by vision and mucus dripped from my nose as I described the ceremony to our kids who hadn't been there due to school. 
     Upon completing our visit at Aunt Susan's and Uncle Thomas's combined marker, where Pene place her gold origami swan and Jaren placed his Lego motorcycle among vases of flowers, Deanne encircled an orchid lei about the plaque, and I said an awkward prayer, we headed back. Over to our left on a grassy slope the bagpiper—handsome and regal—played before a family seated on a tatami mat and upon completion gave a slow measured salute before marching on with slow solemn cadence. 
     I asked Braden if that was the way JROTC taught him to march?  
     He said, “Yeah, kind—of.”
     “Impressive huh?”
     “Yeah”, he said. 
     At our car, the contrast between the two cemeteries couldn't have been starker. I pointed out to the kids that the difference was attributable to Chinese immigrants being considered “less important” by land owners, so they were given junk land in which to bury their dead. But that no one in the eyes of God is less important than anyone else. Unfortunately, that's just the way our current system works. 
     Deanne mentioned that the same held true for my mom's relatives' cemetery in Honokaa (on the road out to Waipio Valley). I agreed and said that that was where Dad had first alerted us to such differences. She asked hadn't most of our closest relatives there been disinterred and re-interred either at Honokaa Hongwangi's or Honolulu Honpa Hongwangi's columbariums? to which I said yes.
     It had been a very meaningful (and for a me, moving) Memorial Day, an experience we won't soon forget.

Being A Dad

     In an essay picked up for recent publication by Honolulu Metro (click here to see), I listed the four best things that ever happened to me: Received Jesus as my Lord and Savior, entrusted everything to Him, got married, and had kids. Only now do I realize that none were merit—based: I didn't do a single thing to deserve any of them, instead having received them all as free gifts—including life, health, and happiness—by the grace of God. It's true what they say that the best things in life can't be bought or earned, they're free.
     I've written much in prior blog essays about the challenges and blessings of being a dad, but here are a few memories that have stuck that I believe are eternal and will live on beyond me and that help define what it means to be a dad to me.
     When Braden was age one-and-a-half, an only child at the time, I was the coolest guy on the planet to him. Never before had I been perceived as such, so it was a heady experience, but one that also filled me with a huge sense of responsibility. I realized this cool factor when I went into the bathroom one night to shower and four, then eight tiny fingers emerged beneath the door—Braden's fingers seeking me out. Over the next few minutes, I touched my fingertips to his to let him know that I was there and wanted to play too. His chuckle on the other side and continued finger pokes confirmed his enjoyment and filled my surging heart with aching joy. 

     Jaren, my youngest at age seven, still gives me chest-to-chest hugs and enjoys it maybe as much as I do. He climbs aboard after our bedtime reading so I can say prayers while stroking his head and back, and upon completion, plant four or five kisses on head, forehead, and/or cheeks. He kisses back but for sub-par ones I say, “What kind of junk kisses were those—no air kisses!” and present my cheek for more, which he obliges with a smile. 
     Pene recently surprised me by giving me a Snoopy stuffed animal for my birthday that she crocheted herself. She and Deanne have been crocheting and knitting scarves, hats, half-sweaters, and jewelry items, but I had no idea anyone would think of making something for me. It came with a home-made card and tag for “The Best Dad” and now sits atop my bedside night stand. 

     Braden, at the age three, loved digging for worms to feed our fighting fish that we received as a gift and kept for a few weeks despite our lease that disallowed pets. We dug behind our apartment or in school fields or parks. At a neighborhood basketball court beneath an overgrown shade tree, he scraped away at the leaves and dried out, hardened topsoil while I supervised exhausted. He looked up at me, and with timid eyes and beseeching voice said, “Play with me, Daddy.” At that, how could I not? Who cared that there was zero chance of finding worms there. It was all about the togetherness—digging at the topsoil together. 
     When Jaren was age five, one of our favorite games to play was “tent”—hiding beneath my bed's quilt and comforter. “It's so dark,” I'd say in mock scary tone to which he'd reply, “It's not that dark.” I'd pretend to fall asleep and snore, until it got too hot and had to throw off the covers. Then I'd pretend to fall asleep and snore—with an arm draped over him. He'd fight to escape—with lots of grunts and moans—and if successful, I'd snort and roll over in my sleep, and drape my other arm over a different part of his body, pretending to snore again. He loved the struggle to escape—especially if I happened to tickle him in my sleep. “Wah? Wha? Wah?” I'd say to end the game as if I had just wakened.
     When Pene was yet a thumb-sucking ten-month-old toddler, she once sat playing toys with all her big-kid relatives on our living room floor while we parents and grand-parents sat around chatting. On sudden impluse, she got up, sighed, walked over to me, and thumb in mouth and free hand to belly button, leaned her head sideways onto my thigh while I stroked her head for comfort. Less than a minute passed and she stood upright, walked back to her toys, and resumed playings just as before. How's that for instant cure?
     And more recently, Pene surprised me when, as a matter of course, I asked her what she learned in school today? She said that in P.E. her substitute teacher had them write an essay about a hero. 
     “Who did you pick?” I asked. 
     “You,” she said with a pleased smile. 
     I thanked her and as my soul soared skyward, asked, “Now, what about this terrific man do you find so heroic?” She smiled and as I sensed hesitation I lifted a hand to halt her and said, “You don't have to answer” and walked to Deanne to inform her of my hero status. She wasn't convinced I deserved it, but that didn't dampen my mood 'cause Pene—one super-perceptive, wise, wunderkind—felt I did, and that was more than enough. Would that all dads get to hear such from a loved one. And may we all deserve it to some degree or other.