Making the Grade—Part II

     Here we go again. We've been asking Braden throughout this school quarter how he's doing and whether he's keeping up with his grades and his answers have always been “Fine” and “Yes.” Three weeks ago we get a prerecorded message from his school announcing a mid-quarter report card was sent home that day. Deanne asks him for it and he says, “Oh, yeah...” and retrieves it. Turns out his grades are far from fine. Not even close to fine with C's or worse in Math, English, and Science and a border-line B in History—all honors classes, but nonetheless, all grades unacceptable. This is especially unexpected and unpleasant 'cause he's had so much time throughout his days at home to get in trouble with Jaren, do lousy jobs with dish washing, lie around, do nothing, misuse the computer, give us bad attitude, and in general, look as if he hadn't a care in the world. (Perhaps he's fit to serve in Congress?) We ask him to bring home a print-out of all his grades for every assignment this quarter and through such discover he's been getting tomes of C's, D's, and F's for all these classes.

     Regular readers of this blog (real or imagined) may know the routine for such sub-B grades: Redo all such assignments, show the redone work to the teacher, and ask, “Will this have gotten me a B or better? My father wants to know even if it does not change my grade.”

     I ask which of the sub-B assignments he redid and he says, “None.”

     Why not? I ask, veins in my eyes throbbing like sea slugs.

     He attempts to feed me bovine feces, which I decline because I've already eaten and put him in time-out and make him do all the chores for all eternity.

     I then look at all his redone sub-B work to see that they're up to snuff, but what he shows me looks and smells an awful lot like equine feces (with heavy emphasis on the word awful).

      It takes him billions of attempts at each assignment to finally get them to where I believe they might warrant B's or better. All the while, I'm fuming, he's fuming, Deanne's fuming, and the family (and ozone layer) is suffering! I don't know how else to get it done. Just let him get lazier and lazier and lazier, with a worsening “Who cares?” attitude? I don't even know what he's thinking, sometimes wondering (assuming) he's doing it all just to irritate me and show me up.

     I start reading a book that I find on a library display called The Teen Whisperer 'cause it sounds so nice to be able to whisper to Braden to get him to put in his best effort the first time every time and follow-up on sub B grades with an attitude of excellence and responsibility without having to be told (shouted at, disciplined, threatened, etc. etc. etc.) as if he were completely ignorant on the matter even though this has been our ongoing routine during the beginning of every school year since he was in diapers. What must I whisper to him? I love you? Please? Pretty please with sugar on top? I know this must be difficult for you? How can I help you? Is there anything bothering you? I hope (though I know I shouldn't) that there is some magic incantation that I can whisper to him in his sleep that will solve all his life's ills...

     Turns out the book's pretty reasonable (but not earth-shattering—Where's the magic bullet?) and even softens my heart some, so after he breaks down and cries in anguish (over the difficulty of learning—Yes, learning and thinking are difficult, they're some of the most difficult things there are to do, that's why jobs that require such are some of the higher paid (excepting rock star, pro athlete, CEO, and hedge fund manager), I've told him. But the upside is that they're also some of the most rewarding and doing without thinking and learning makes life far more difficult. I realize, eventually, that he's just going through typical teen angst, of which I had more than my fill when I was a teen, and yes, I do remember and empathize.) I give him a choice: Do what needs to get done by quarter end and he gets to keep all his classes. Don't do adequate, and I'll have him drop Honors Science in favor of regular Science. (The most recent grades listing shows marked improvements in Math (low A territory), English (low B territory), and History (a solid B). Science has dropped to D territory, however, with Fs and an ungraded “redo” for recent assignments, one of which he spent hours on, including a Saturday afternoon taking a bus to and from the library to do internet research. He's trying fairly hard, I see, but is still struggling in the class. A change must be made—I don't want this to be the beginning of a long downhill slide...) If the school demurs, I'll insist he drop his favorite elective: JROTC, which is demanding and at times distracting, taking time and attention from academics (though he may resume it next year, assuming he earns decent marks in all his core academic subjects).

     He isn't pleased, but then again, what does he expect? He can no longer score A's and B's with minimal effort like in the past, he's going to have to work much, much harder to thrive and enjoy school, which are critical at his age should he desire higher education later, 'cause it's not going to get any easier, it's going to just keep getting tougher and tougher. I don't like laying down the law this way, but under the circumstances, I feel I must. It's what helpful dads do (or so I deceive myself). Leastwise, we can scarce afford to send him to adult play school (college) with no expectation of return (a useful diploma). However, if he finds a way to perform well, we will do our best to provide. But time is running out... (which is why those sea slugs in my eyes are thriving!)

Worship Band

     About a year ago, I asked if I could play bass in the keiki worship band our church had, comprised of an adult leader that played guitar; kids that played percussion, piano, guitar, and violin; and youth vocalists. I felt it could use more low end and that I could have fun interacting with the youth.

      The leader said, Sure. The church has a bass, do you have an amp?

      I said, No, I'll check around and maybe buy one.

      The next week I showed up expecting to see the bass (I already knew where to buy an amp from), but he instead said, You'll play the washtub bass. And he showed me two different ones to chose from: large and small. Both were made by a church elder years ago from old-fashion aluminum washtubs, each with a string attached to the middle bottom and a stick to pull on to adjust the string's tension, which was plucked. I said, This is great. I love it! And I selected the big one to practice their songs, one of which we played in church one Sunday. I never did get to play my favorite song that we practiced, though, Lean on Me, with it's distinctive bass line because the kids were having trouble with the vocals.

      Then that worship leader left our church and a new leader stepped in. I was no longer particularly welcomed to continue playing, so I stepped aside.

      Then several months ago, our pastor told me, “I have a gift for you,” and gave me the church's Ibanez electric bass and asked me to join the keiki worship band (soon to be renamed praise band with all ages welcome). So I bought an amp and joined the group.

      We played our first song in church this past Sunday, even though we were originally scheduled to play in November. On seeming whim, our pastor last Sunday at practice said to the group just as I arrived (they started practicing early and were already finishing), So let's have you all play next Sunday, alright? (meaning we were on).

      Fortunately it was a song I knew well enough and we got to extend practice that day for those in the core of the group (sans drummer, who rarely shows up for practices these days).

      The day of the show, my family and I got to church an hour early—good thing because I had to set up the electronic drums, mics, music stands, music, bass, bass amp, and drum amp, and do sound checks. Fortunately the backup guitarist and drummer showed up fifteen minutes early so we could do a couple of run-throughs. Pene was supposed to play violin following notes I wrote for her. (She picked favorite notes from the chords I wrote out—mostly whole notes and a few half-notes. We'd practiced a few times at home and she'd sounded fine.) But during rehearsal, she started to put away her violin. I asked why. She said she wanted to sing, instead. I said, Play violin, you sound great. So she unpacked and the rehearsal went fine.

      Before service, I asked Deanne how Pene sounded and she said she was just standing there with violin in hand, not playing.

      Before we played, I asked Pene to play. She did and sounded fine (I heard her this time), and the song went fine, though when I asked Deanne about how Pene sounded, she said her violin was drowned out by the bass. I knew then that next time, we'll have to mic her just as the past violinist was always mic'd whenever he played, for one acoustic violin just can't compete with a plugged-in band.

      I wonder though if my playing style and volume was appropriate for our mostly senior audience and our church's conservative service (we sing mostly hymns accompanied by organ). My incentive for rockin' the bass line (with slaps, plucks, treble boost, some overdrive, slides, and bass chords) was to engage the youngsters and waken the baby boomers so it wouldn't seem so boring. For some of our youth are very iffy and indifferent toward the group and worship in general. I'd hate to see the band dissolve for lack of interest. Anything, then, to ignite the interest of these youngsters so that they would want to come and/or join—that's why I'm involved, that and of course to spend time with my kids doing something we can all get into and share happy memories of.

      We must not have been that bad 'cause our pastor asked (told) us to play again next week—same song. Amen to that!

     I later asked Pene why she didn't play during rehearsal and after a long pause she said because she didn't feel quite ready. I asked was it because the whole notes were boring to play? She said no. I said I can change them to quarter note scales. She said that's not necessary. I said if you're playing first in orchestra, you have to play out—I made lots of mistakes, no one cared. She said yes Dad. For some reason, she didn't seem quite into it, but once she's mic'd, perhaps she'll get more excited then. Or perhaps she's just imitating the ho-hum attitude of some of the other youth—she's like that: she'll pick up vibes and imitate. Her loss, though, if she's unable to enjoy due to the disinterest of others.  It's my job to try to make her like it!

Bypassing Promotions

     I might do it again—bypass the opportunity for promotion. Others must think I'm unambitious, lazy, or crazy to not want the additional prestige, responsibility, power, career advancement potential, and cash. In truth, I just want to make best use of my limited time on earth. As no one on his or her death bed has ever said, “My one regret in life is that I didn't spend more time at work.” And prestige, responsibility, power, career advancement potential, and cash come and go and are soon forgotten (once one dies, say) but time spent with family, friends, and loved ones is eternal, never forgotten or regretted, so I believe.
     The night I first noticed the posted vacancy, I imagined what it would be like to take the promotion—this in a different department with tons more responsibility. There would be lots of documents to sign—super long documents that would be impossible to read in their entireties before signing. A retired judge, who was a family friend, once told me, “Don't ever sign anything unless you read it first.” It's one of the best advice I have ever received and I've taken it to heart. It gets merchants (auto mechanics, rental car agencies, landlords, etc.) annoyed at times, but such practice has saved me from regretting hasty “I trust you” decisions, so, no signature from me until I at least get the gist of the document. I imagined the incumbent in the position either signing off on numerous such documents at a glance, or calling the author and asking, “What's this all about? A lot of this technical stuff is over my head”—e.g. for technology department approvals, legal contracts, etc. I know were I in the incumbent's position, regardless of what the author told me, I'd still feel uncomfortable signing off if I hadn't read or understood it. I know good managers trust their co-workers and staff; I wouldn't be so ready, at least at first.
     Also, there would be lots of urgent deadlines. “We have to get this out by today, please let me know ASAP”—I imagined receiving this via employer-provided iPhone some Sunday afternoon as I was assembled with a bunch of kids to practice in our new worship group (I play bass). I'd have to excuse myself, read the thing, respond, and maybe even dismiss myself from attending altogether in order to get the work done, cursing under my breath for having to do such boring, responsible business stuff I really don't want to have to do and forgoing doing the fun, meaningful stuff I really do want to do.
     Also, there would be lots of meetings. I'm not big on non-productive meetings where senseless banter and beat-around-the-bush small talk prevails and perhaps the real issue gets addressed in only the last few minutes, if at all. And I detest meetings dominated by politics, in-fighting, and put downs—especially of those not present. And I wouldn't want to have to put on a fake smile and feel obligated to contribute my own cynical views, and act as if I enjoyed it all and believed that what we were doing was all sooo important and that we were all doing such wonderful jobs, deserving of our disproportionate higher pays.
     Also, there would be lots of stress. None of the higher-ups at our workplace look happy—not one. Nearly all seem stressed-out. Some act completely uncivil and shrill at times. Not something I wanted to be a part of.
     Also, there would be lots of overtime, meaning less time devoted to family life at home, time spent with those whom I love most, doing what makes life enjoyable and meaningful, far more than work ever could. And as our kids are growing so fast, do I really want to miss the next several years of watching them and actively engaging with them—especially Braden who may be leaving home for good in less than three years?
     My current job allows me to arrive early and leave early, thus, I arrive around 6:15 a.m. and leave work shortly after 3:00 p.m. and arrive home before 4:00. No doubt this would be a thing of the past should I take the promotion, not that they'd likely select me, for no higher up has encouraged me to apply or sent signals that I'm their anointed one.
     But I don't mind. What's a twenty percent pay raise (or so) compared to having a job one enjoys (I enjoy mine, overall, 'cause it has enough responsibility, meaning, challenge, and fulfillment, but not too much stress and no overtime or super-tight deadlines). Also, coworkers at my level and below are fantastic—humble, professional, and helpful—and I hope to be like them throughout my career. And the closer I am to them, the more likely I'll be like them, I feel.
     Most important, I don't feel God's peace about the position, whereas I feel tons of God's peace about staying. He's been blessing me and our family in my current job. Decades ago, I bypassed two offers of advancement (due to similar, though different reasons—neither felt right) and have never regretted it. God was with me after those and I believe he's with us now, praise God!

School Gripes

     I've often said that the two most important and underpaid jobs on the planet are pastor and teacher. I've also said that they're two of the most difficult jobs to do well and that I doubt I'd last more than a couple days as a teacher and perhaps a couple months as a pastor, depending, as I don't feel equipped for either. So such practitioners deserve huge amounts of respect for dedicating themselves despite low pay, long hours, and persistent underfunding, all for the intangible benefit of growth of students/parishioners that they may never see.
     Deanne and I have always been very satisfied with all our three kids' public schools and teachers, so it was a huge disappointment to learn of reduced middle school and high school hours and periodic replacement of academic class periods with study hall. For Pene, school hours were reduced from ~8:00 to ~3:00 to ~8:00 to ~2:00 and she now has study hall four days a week. For Braden, hours were cut from ~8:00 to ~2:30 to ~8:00 to ~2:15, and study hall, which meets twice a week, is this year considered optional, thus school days are in essence ~8:00 to ~2:00 for students that choose to skip study hall.
     At Pene's open house, I learned that last academic year, students attended each of six enrolled classes four times a week but that this year such meetings have been cut to three. Teachers emphasized that with this reduction, it's critical that students not fall behind and that they get the most out of each class session because there won't be many opportunities to catch up otherwise, and that the new study hall class is essential to keep on top with the reduced classroom hours and class attendance days.
     The good news is that study hall permits students to get a hall pass and go to whichever teacher they need help from. It's a decent idea in theory, but in practice, I doubt many students that need help use it as designed to improve their grades or understanding—it's expecting an awful lot of students (slackers) to recognize the need to study more, request a hall pass, walk over to the designated teacher, wait in line, ask the teacher for help, sit through explanations, perform additional exercises as necessary, get the pass signed, walk back to study hall, return the pass, and mostly to recognize the need for tutoring and drum up the courage to pursue it in the first place without being told or forced to by a parent or teacher. This is especially true at Braden's high school where study hall is scheduled the last period of the day and is now optional. Will kids voluntarily stay after school dismissal to pursue help? Wasn't this always an option last year before this ill-advised policy change?
     I told Braden that unless he's getting straight A's, he is to always attend and study hall, especially since he's taking a foreign language for the first time, and this from a disciplined teacher with high expectations.
     Pene's school fortunately mandates attendance at study hall, but most of the time she just does homework or reads in it since she always stays on top of her academics. Nonetheless, study hall has effectively reduced her classroom instruction time since there is no teaching in study hall for students like her who don't need additional help. I feel that's short-changing her for being responsible and staying on top of her work.
     I asked one of Pene's teacher, “Whose idea was it to reduce the number of times each class meets per week?”
     He said, “The teachers. After each school year, the faculty discuss how the year's schedule worked and how it might be improved. Last year we ended close to three o-clock and everyone was just dragging by the end of the day—it was just too long. So the idea came up to shorten each day and class meetings per week and make up for it with study hall. We had study hall in the past; for some reason it got dropped.
     This explained a bunch. Last academic year, especially toward the end, Pene's and Braden's classes each had tons of slack days when all they did was watch non-academic movies or only very loosely related Hollywood fare during class time. Some of their classes showed movies in series, too, multiple class sessions in a row.  And sometimes the kids did nothing but attend class parties and watch movies all day long! When I was their age, this never happened.  They even had do-nothing periods, when all they did was “whatever”—as long as they stayed out of trouble. Pene tended to read and Braden tended to put his head down or “do nothing.”
     By the way, Pene's teacher also said that next school year, the schedule will change again due to state legislature mandated increased classroom hours. I hope this doesn't mean more movies, parties, and do-nothing days to give teachers and students a break.

Good Fights

     I read a column awhile ago about a marriage based on mutual respect and love, wonderful in every way, where the advice columnist's only advice was: “Once in awhile, have a really good fight so you don't get bored with each other.”

      I wondered about that. Is it really necessary for a happy couple to have occasional fights to keep things alive?

      Not that that ever applied to our marriage. Such peaceful nonaggressiveness between Deanne and me has never been enduring (perhaps occasional stretches of a couple months or so at most), so we have had fights aplenty. Most have been quite minor over day-to-day matters and preferences: helping out with the kids and chores, and scoldings/arguments over errors, misunderstandings, relationships with relatives, moodiness, attitudes, tones, and so forth. So there's little threat that we'll ever get bored of each other due to lack of fights.

      But I do see the benefit and necessity (at least for us) of fighting the good fight—the fight to improve things, not to tear down; the fight for what's good and right; the fight for hope and a future, not despair and surrender to the world's selfish, messed up ways; in short, the fight to preserve peace and wholesomeness in our lives and encourage growth in God as individuals, a couple, and a family. It's not automatic to do such things, as people have moods and frailties, so Godly success comes and goes. We must thus catch ourselves. Sometimes she or I needs to remind the other where we both belong and truly want to be. But pride or laziness or worldliness sometimes puts up a bad fight that makes the true good fight necessary, for if these things aren't worth fighting for, what are?

      Though I feel our marriage has been heavenly blessed, I also have had the dread feeling—too often to recall—of being on the edge, when things could have gone either way, depending. There's no blame involved, but we all have our limits and sometimes when it feels like she or I is at that limit and no motion for the better is forthcoming, that there's little option left. That's when I've prayed like crazy. And talked. And fought the good fight as necessary. (It has gone as often or more the other way, too, where Deanne was the one that led by example, mostly by submitting to Godly authority—mine—when she'd felt certain I'd been following God's lead.) Such times were soooo scary because I could foresee the bleak, dark future on the other side, a place I never wanted to go, especially since our marriage, when working well, is wonderful (I hope as much for Deanne as it is for me). And God has always come through, not once failing to provide for our needs in such dire circumstances. Praise God almighty for his faithfulness!

      As for fights with the kids, I don't tolerate it. If they wish to disagree with civility, I'm happy to listen, but no shouting back. Braden, now age fifteen, on occasion (usually before or after big trips away from home) sometimes loses control and challenges with angry cynical shouts. But it's not a true fight because by then he just defies to make a show of independence, which is unacceptable since it's at our expense, so as long as he keeps it up, he suffers consequences: chores, groundings, time-outs in the carport, and walks up and down the street. It's his choice: say “Yes, Dad (or Mom)” and go in peace, or shout back and get consequences leveled upon him for as long as he continues.

     When I was Braden's age, my mom tolerated my angry, vehement shouting at her and for awhile encouraged it by shouting back at me without leveling consequences. Partly as a result, I never learned to fully control my temper, which has hurt me numerous ways throughout my life. I don't want that to happen to Braden or any of our kids, so that's why I insist that they not vent their tempers on us, the authority figures. (By the way, my temper is mine to control and it's not my mom's fault that I still haven't mastered it, but it reminds me of a story I heard of Swede Bjorn Borg, the tennis great from the 1970s who was the picture of cool, calm composure for anyone of any sport or profession. As a youth, he once lost his temper during a tennis match. His dad took away his racket for awhile and Bjorn never lost his temper on court again. Fine dad. Fine results. Is it naive for me to hope for comparable?) 

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.