Appreciative Attitude

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

     She groaned and went into a huff.

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

     She pursed her lips.

     “Will you take him?”

     She didn't answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Perspective—Part II

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hit and Run

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

More Travails

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

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

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

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

     “Yeah.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     “I don't care,” I said.

     “How can you say that?”

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

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

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

     “But don't you think-.”

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

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

     “Where were you?” I asked.

     “Walking up and down the street.”

     “No,” mumbled Deanne from the living room.

     “Which street?”

     He named streets nearby, but not ours.

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

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

     “Yes, Dad,” he said.

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

A Date with Penelope

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

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

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

     She laughed and nodded.

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

     “No reason,” she said.

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

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

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

     She nodded. “Me, too.”

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

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

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

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

     She laughed. “Yes Dad.”

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

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

     She smiled. “I don't know.”

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

     “Literal or figurative?” she asked.

     “Either.”

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

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

     “No,” she said.

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

     “I hadn't thought of it.”

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

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

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

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

Serving God Willingly—Finally!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Strength in Weakness

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

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

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

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

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

     “Maybe, but why?”

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

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

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

     “Why?” I asked.

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

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

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

     “But what does that say about his character?”

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

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

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

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

     “Strong.”

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

     “He could die.”

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

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

     “He asked for help?” said Pene.

     “Yes, but why?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

     “Yes?”

     “Who did they ask for help?”

     “God.”

     “Why?”

     “Because he's strong.”

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

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

     “That's right.”

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

Braden

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pene

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     But I entrust to God that all be well.

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

Church Visitations

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

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

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

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

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

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

Photogenic Kids

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

     How times have changed!

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

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

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

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

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

Mumbling

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Klepper?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Waikiki Overnighter

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To Visit or Not to Visit

     A recent essay of mine (click here to view), published in Metro HNL described my eighty-six year old Aunt Julie who is suffering ill health and the recent loss of doting husband and family man Uncle Tani. She specified, “No visitors or phone calls”, because she needed quiet time to recover while she convalesced in a care home. In the essay I described some of my love and appreciation for her, what she'd done and shown me through the years, and my concern that she may have lost her will to live, and that I wished to say “Thank you” and Goodbye”—just in case.

     More recently, I felt called to visit her. I thought she might appreciate it and I didn't want to later regret not having gone and tried despite discomfort I'll feel for having disobeyed her instructions. I felt maybe she didn't want people to see her sick so I envisioned waving a white flag before her open doorway and calling to her and perhaps speaking to her solely hidden from view. And I felt our closeness—never a harsh word exchanged—would encourage a quick reconciliation if offense was taken.

     When I called the care home and asked regarding whether Auntie Julie specified visitor restrictions, the nurse said, “None at all.” The nurse at the sign-in visitor's station was happy to see Jaren and me there an hour or two later.

     A TV blared within. I waved in slow figure eights a white sheet of paper mounted to the end of a croquet mallet shaft in front of the door and called, “Auntie Julie? Auntie Julie?”

     There was no answer so I took a peak in and saw a privacy curtain that shielded her bed from view. I tried again from within with only the flag visible beyond the curtain's end.

     “Who's there?” she asked.

     I stepped forward and didn't recognize the frail elderly woman lying flat on her back in bed. “Auntie Julie?” I asked.

     “Yes,” she said. “Who are you?”
     “Tim. Do you mind a visit?” I then recognized something about her expressive eyes and raspy nasal voice that calmed me.

     It was a brief visit as she said she told my mom she didn't want visitors because she needed rest for her heart. She allowed us to leave small gifts—two scones made by Deanne and a wooden alphabet block wrapped by Jaren in his artwork scribbles that she didn't bother to open—even as she smiled and joked about us being Santa Claus and commented on Jaren being cute and having grown so much.

     She was appreciative—no scoldings—but firm and gentle when she said “bye” twice to prompt our departures.

     “Can I at least hug and kiss you?” I asked.

     In her biggest smile yet, she said, “You can shake my hand,” which Jaren and I did.

     It'd been far better than I'd feared, but far less than I'd hoped. I'd had fanciful notions of talking story for over an hour, sharing about our family, hearing about hers, and making visits with her a regular thing—perhaps twice a month or more. Then again I'd dreaded the shock and hurt of a sharp rebuke. I'd pictured me crying tears of joy for a heartfelt welcome. Regardless, I'm glad that we went and obeyed that simple God's prompting.

Vacation Bible School, Part II

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

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

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

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

     He nodded and said, Yes, Dad.

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

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

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

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