“Our heat pump water heater isn’t heating!”

Dear Dad,

Last night, Carol called to me from the bathroom: “Our heat pump water heater isn’t heating!” Yep, we had one of those installed. You know, those things that run like a refrigerator in reverse? I still remember your explaining to me how the freon or whatever gets compressed and heated, then sprays into the part of the system inside the fridge, cooling everything. I also remember your telling me that I didn’t know how lucky I was, and you were right—I didn’t. But what I'm thinking of now is how lucky I was to have you as my father.

Anyway, I ran out to the patio, where the heat-pump water heater is, and opened the door to its closet. It was dark, where usually a LCD display shows what it's set to. H’m. I went to the subpanel in the house. The breaker had been tripped—I wondered why. I switched it to ON and immediately heard arcing. Oh no! I quickly turned it off. Why…?

The cover had one screw mostly off? Oh, the sheetrock guy had to remove the cover in order to put the wallboard on. There was joint compound around the edges, too. Right, the bathroom project still isn’t finished. Yes, we’re using a contractor. Unlike you, I don’t do all this stuff myself any more.

I looked closely at the breaker—was it a little cockeyed? It would be easy to accidentally jostle it while removing or replacing the cover.

I pulled out the (30A 240V) pair of breakers, and the one breaker’s “jaws” looked a little too wide; that was somehow unsurprising; it was the one grabbing the, uh, busbar with the dark deposits (from the arcing, I reckon).

No bueno. It was already late, was I going to have to run out and find…? Wait—didn’t I have a spare 30A 240V pair of breakers? Last summer? (fall?), when I thought our old oven might have been the victim of a flakey circuit breaker, I spent the $20 on a replacement pair, which I never installed. Good thing, too; the old breakers were just fine, as proven by the new oven’s flawless operation from day one.

And an even better thing: I had a brand-new pair of breakers to use on the heat pump! I made my way to the garage, found the breakers where I’d left them, and examined them to make sure I correctly remembered their rating. 30A—yes! The jaws had equal (to my eye) and narrow widths, and each pair of jaws also had a little bit of, ah, conductive toothpaste—at least that’s what it looked like—to promote solid contact with its busbar.

Now all I had to do was get the wires off the old breakers and onto the new ones. Wow, why are these screws so hard to turn? Was it because I was using a common screwdriver when I should have been using a square-drive? Modern technology! Fortunately, I had an S2 bit for the cordless screwdriver, which I bought just a couple weeks ago for another purpose. Out in the garage, I found the package exactly where I’d left it (wow, I should buy a lottery ticket). I pulled one off the card (I’d bought a pair) and grabbed my multi-driver tool with the appropriate hexagonal hole (a freebie from when I worked at hp over 20 years ago).

Screws sure turn more easily when you have the right blade. Got the wires off the old breakers and onto the new ones. I might have liked to clean the black deposits off the busbar, but nah, I didn’t want to try figuring out what to clean it with (something not made of metal) and besides, what harm would that stuff do? The conductive toothpaste would ensure a good bond.

Engaged the outer edge of the breakers, then pressed the inner edge all the way in. Turned the breaker to “ON.” Outside, I was greeted by glowing digits: 121°. I headed back in to button up.

I didn’t fully tighten the cover screws, since the joint compound wasn’t dry everywhere. Then I texted my general contractor, asking him to please tell the sheetrock guy that I had to replace the breaker, and that's why I had to touch that breaker panel. He’d certainly be able to tell that I touched it, and I wanted him to know why.

Dad, I’m so glad you taught me all the stuff you did. I truly am a lucky man. I just wish I could still pick up the phone and tell you about this little adventure. You’d commiserate with me and laugh (“Are you saying your wife called to you from the shower, and she just wanted you to fix the hot water?”). You’d agree it was a lucky thing I had not gotten around to returning the unused circuit breakers last summer or fall. You’d congratulate me on the quick diagnosis. I sure would have enjoyed all that. But mostly I would have just enjoyed telling you about it, knowing you understood my thought process.

Love you and miss you, Dad.

Letter to Dad: the door and some news

Dear Dad,

Do you remember a few years back, you had me work on the closer for your bedroom door? No, it still works fine, but yesterday the girls (well, they're close to 60 now) noticed that the door wasn't closing all that well. I don't think it's the closer; the door needed some planing I thought.

I had a heck of a time getting into the cabinet where you keep it; had to step over a bunch of stuff; several sheets of plywood make it hard to fully open the doors. Anyway, I fished out the plane and cranked the adjuster clockwise a little. Man, did it bite into the door! I tried to back it off, and pretty soon I couldn't turn it at all.

Guess it's been too long, because I'd forgotten about the left-handed threads. Ended up jamming the adjuster so I couldn't turn it, and then used the hammer-and-screwdriver trick you showed me. Unfortunately, that only made it worse because I turned it the wrong way!

I opened the other cabinet and found an almost-empty can of oil, and got some on the threads. That's when I discovered they're left-handed. But turning the adjuster the other way (which would back it off the jammed position) would force the blade further out. Not the way I wanted it to go!

First I got the adjuster to a place where I could turn it. Then I noticed that the blade didn't move freely with the adjuster. So I took it apart further and found two screws that held the blade-holder to the body of the plane. Apparently the plane had suffered some trauma that forced the blade in an always-out position.

With the blade-holder in a better position and with some oil on the blade assembly (sorry, the oilcan is even closer to empty now), the blade moves well and tracks the adjuster.

I planed the door a little, remembering with some fondness the operations done on it a few years ago. It's better now, but it still needs a yank or a thump to get latched. I wonder if loosening the, umm, strike plate would work? In any case, it's better now than before I started.

And the plane is working better.

Oh, I think you would be happy to see the little platform I made for the door the last time I was here. (Neil was a big part of the process.) When I took Mom to the doctor in January, she mentioned to him that she fell on her 'okole going out the door. The platform is the same height as the floor in the bedroom, so she walks straight out through the door. We also put a handrail. Keith drove most of the screws for that.

After I installed the platform, Neil and I think Jana remarked it would be nice if it was moved about 6" to the right. Neil did that operation and I think it was a good change.

About Keith: You would be happy to know that he passed FAA school and is working now at the Oakland ARTC center. I'm sure you remember visiting there many years ago. He lives near Sheri and Peter.

Oh, and I've been thinking about changing jobs. Yes, I remember you told me to find a job with a good company and stay there. Well, that worked for the first 26 years, and it's worked well enough for the next 16. But after 42 years, I'm thinking to maybe try something else.

I expect to be visiting Apple to see if it's a good fit for me. The guy hasn't given me a date yet, but it's OK because I'm in no hurry (there's something I'd like to finish at NetApp before I go, if I go). There's another place that I visited, a small company that would be exciting to work at because it's still in its early stages.

Dad, I still miss you terribly sometimes. You know that a lot of the time I try to do what I think you would do, or would want me to. I always think of you when I give blood, which I did a couple weeks ago. Next year I think I'll hit 8 gallons.

Love,

Directed Writing

I don't remember the prompt for the first one, but here's what I wrote:

---

The headlights slowed as they approached, and I took a last drag before flicking the butt into the night.

I stepped onto the cab's ladder to reach the door handle and swung my knapsack onto the floor. “Howdy, and thanks—” I said as I shut the door.

The first surprise was her voice. “Evenin’, stranger,” she said as she steered the 18-wheeler back onto the highway.

Immediately I sat up straighter. “Thanks for stopping, ma’am.”

That got me a guffaw. “Don’t call me ma’am—I work for a living!”

“You navy?” I tried.

“Marines!” she said. “Made sergeant but two tours was enough.”

“Thanks for the lift, Sarge,” I said.

“Where you headed?”

“Anywhere but here. Did some stupid things here. Lost my company, family, house. All I got left is my bones.”

“You got a passport?” Sarge glanced at me doubtfully.

“Turns out I do,“ I said. “Needed it for business travel. Not any more, though.”

“Well, sailor,” she said. “This load’s headed for Manitoba. Can you navigate? On land I mean.”

“Sure, Sarge. I was an ensign

---

I ran out of time there. Here's the next one, addressed to my late father.

---

It was just the other day I felt the rail scraping the top of my head. I might have let out a yelp. It amused you that I had grown too tall to walk carelessly under that old kitchen table.

Where were we living then, Dad? Was it the year JFK was elected? Were we in Manoa then? I remember the curved tubular steel legs and the leaf in the middle— I don't think I ever saw the table without it.

But I don't recall which way it faced, or whether the girls were born yet.

Nothing profound, just a snapshot—discovering that my head reached the rail, seeing your smile and hearing your chuckle just the other day, not quite 60 years ago.

Reflections

Dad was admitted to hospital on Monday August 31, and my sister Donna flew to Honolulu Wednesday to be with him. He was confused but improving, and everyone was talking about his recovery/rehab. Still, as the week wore on, I felt a strong desire to be with him. As I wrote earlier, I responded immediately to the blood center's reminder email, and that gave me a sense of connection with Dad. Yet I also wanted to see him in person.

It was September 3rd and I considered the possibilities. We had a plan to meet my daughter and son-in-law and grandson and niece in Felton Monday the 7th (Labor Day), so I wanted to leave after that. The lovely Carol had reservations to fly to Asia on the 17th, so I wanted to return before that. I'd briefly considered flying to Honolulu Monday morning and canceling our plans with the young folks, but since everyone in Honolulu was optimistic, I left those plans intact and planned to fly out Friday 9/11 (an auspicious date).

We enjoyed our time with the young folks on Monday, but our house phone rang that night, close to midnight. Nothing good happens at that hour, and this was when I heard Dad was in a crisis. An hour later he stopped breathing.

I was distressed about this, and wanted to see my mom and sisters immediately. I briefly considered taking the first flight I could get, which would have been about 6 hours later. Instead I opted for a flight out Wednesday morning.

Tuesday morning I went to the office and set up an email auto-reply. I also preemptively told my colleagues that I was leaving due to a death in the family. Several friends (and colleagues) stopped by to convey their condolences. Two gave me the same excellent advice: DO NOT indulge the "what if?"s.

Should I rent a car? I wasn't sure so I texted my sisters.

As I packed, I thought, well, if I had left Monday morning I might have seen him alive one more time. I thought, if I had "facetime"d him Monday afternoon, as my cousin-by-marriage had, I would have talked to him alive one more time. Then I remembered my friends' excellent advice and renounced those thoughts. No one is ever told what would have happened…

Thursday afternoon we had an appointment at the mortuary to look at Dad's body before cremation. I wasn't sure I liked the cremation idea, but when I saw his body (it had been in the 'fridge and condensation was forming at several places) I changed my mind. The past few weeks he had lost quite a bit of weight. I wanted to remember him as he was during my previous visits.

We all wept. We agreed that things could have been much worse: it might have been months in a hospital bed in the house, a life he would not have liked. We knew all this, but still it was hard to accept that he was really gone. A world without my father in it is an idea that repels the mind.

Donna said it was good for us to see him here; without it we might imagine he was just at the hospital or somewhere else. I agreed. It's a necessary shock to force the mind to accept an idea that repels it.

Mom asked if someone could pray, and I said, "Not me; I can't even see." My sister Inga spoke to God for us.

We had a memorial service Saturday: the urn holding his ashes sat on a table in front, with a 20"x30" pic of him nearby. Several people shared their memories of him. I heard things I hadn't known before—things that made me desire even more to be like him.

Monday morning we buried his ashes. In a small ceremony at the cemetery we watched the urn go into the underground concrete "vault" and we filed by, dropping flowers into the hole in the earth. Workers from the cemetery closed the vault and shoveled soil to fill the hole, then replaced the sod.

It was important, for me at least, to witness this. As our pastor says sometimes, our bodies know things different from what our heads know. By dropping a flower into the vault (into the hole at least) and mentally saying good-bye to Dad, my body was forced to acknowledge that Dad is really no longer with us on this earth. Without this ritual, my mind would still have known that he's gone, but my body would not be sure.

Sometimes we go to funerals to comfort the bereaved, and I appreciate everyone who came to Dad's memorial to comfort us. But at least from my perspective, the important thing I got was that I acknowledged with both my mind and my body that my dad is no longer with us.

That way, the mind and the body and the reality in the world can all agree—this promotes mental and spiritual health. And I need all of that I can get.

Another memory of Dad

I took a right turn and heard a thumping from the trunk. It was a big roll of paper, "butcher paper" I think, that we used for covering tables for yesterday's lunch reception. The sound reminded me of something Dad told me.

"Did Dad ever tell you that story about the bottle in the trunk?" Neither Mom nor my sister Donna had heard it.

I guess he was still single when this happened, so probably more than 60 years ago. He and a friend were driving, and there was a bottle or something in the trunk. They turned a corner and heard this Bah-dum-bah-dum-bah-dum from the trunk. They found this amusing. "Hey, that's pretty good!" They checked for traffic and swerved left.

Bah-dum-bah-dum-bah-dum. Swerved right. Bah-dum-bah-dum-bah-dum

Pretty soon another sound was heard: a siren, accompanied by flashing lights in the rear-view mirror. They pulled over.

"Lemme smell your breath!" The cop was not pleased.

"The steering seemed a little loose," my dad said.

After checking his license and registration, the cop let them go. "Next time test your steering in a parking lot," he growled.

Is that the kind of thing to tell your son, but not your wife or daughter?

Dad: some notes

Dad's memorial service was today. They asked me to do the bio—but then… well:

---

I was asked to do the biography, but since that's printed in your bulletins, I'll elaborate [on it], and start the remembrances early.

Dad was born August 6, 1923 in Fairview, Oregon. He never knew his mother; she died before his 2nd birthday. As a single father overwhelmed with a farm to run, Grandpa Kyung Soo sent little Arthur away to the "Waverly Baby Home." There, Art unfortunately learned something of racism and the dark side of human nature.

One day, a strange man came to retrieve Art from the institution. Art was so afraid of this stranger that on the train ride home, he couldn't bring himself to ask for the bathroom. You can imagine what happened next. Grandpa asked Art why he didn't say anything; when he heard about Art's fear, he spoke kindly to him.

Art moved to Honolulu in 1941 to live with sister Louvie and her husband Kenneth, now both deceased. He wrote home that he got seasick on the boat ride, and that Kenneth seemed to be "a good egg." Then December 7th came.

Dad worked for the Army as an electronics instructor, first as a draftee and later as a civilian. He had an interesting and varied career before the FAA. He was the engineer at the UH radio station near Date and Kapiolani. He sold insurance, which is how he met our mom. They would have celebrated their 60th anniversary next month.

Dad had quite the sense of humor. One day, back when Mom was, ah, "great with child" (me I think), she had lunch with Dad downtown. They were heading their separate ways -- she was on an escalator -- and he called out, "Don't tell your husband."

The FAA would send Dad to school on the mainland, sometimes for months. Mom would record audio letters to him, and include voices of us kids on them. These were small reels of 1/4" magnetic tape.

On one of these stays on the mainland, Dad had an idea. "Hey fellas," he told his classmates, "Let's move our chairs forward 2 inches." They did this every day for a week or two. One morning, the instructor turned around to walk to the blackboard and bumped into it instead. He told me this story just a couple of months ago, in July.

Dad didn't preach a lot, but he impressed upon me the idea that there are other perspectives than mine. "That's a funny-looking caterpillar," I remarked once. I might have been four or five. "You probably look pretty funny to him too, Son," he replied. Indeed.

Way back, when all of us kids were still living at home, Dad habitually went to the blood bank. He'd call out, "going to give blood" before driving off. I don't know how many gallons he gave. I learned from him that giving blood is something that a man does. Part of why I give blood today is that I wanted to be like him. Still do, in fact.

Dad lived a generous and loving life. My wife often recalls meeting him before our wedding. At first sight, Dad said to her, "Here's the girl that's making my son so happy!"

Back when he was only in his 80s, he taught computer skills at HCC. It wasn't for the money. He was always fixing something for somebody.

He also volunteered a lot at this church. In fact he was about 10 feet above the concrete floor of the Parish Hall here, when the ladder slid out from under him; that's how he broke his back.

After that, I heard him praying more. In one of those prayers he was thankful for that experience because it brought him closer to God. When we say Dad never stopped learning, we don't just mean technology.

Oh, and he didn't stop volunteering at the church after that incident either. I learned that a man doesn't stop giving and helping just because of some inconvenience.

Dad was diagnosed with prostate cancer in the summer of 2014, and that was when I finally realized that he might die some day. He had surgeries, and courses of various medicines. He's had a few health crises, and we all knew the end was coming soon. When I last visited, he was very interested in what happens after this life.

The past couple of weeks have been quite frightening, but he'd been improving until Monday; none of us expected we'd be gathered here quite so soon.

But how can we complain? We've all had our lives touched by this wonderful man; I had the distinct pleasure of having him for my dad, of learning from his example and seeing him enjoy his long life.

I can hardly believe he's gone, and sometimes I can barely hold myself together. But then I remember that one of his fondest wishes was that we survive him. So even in our grief, we can rejoice with him that his wish was granted.

---

That's basically what I said. I wish you could have known him.

Update: And now you can, a little

through some short videos made by his super-talented granddaughter Jana (my niece):

• Arthur W. Park Memorial Video

  Through this video, I hoped to allow Grandpa to "speak" at his own Memorial Service. Although tears were shed, there was so much laughter, just the way Grandpa would want it. Hope you all enjoy this! (w/clips from the many commercials/films he's starred in!)

• "Arthur" (Championships Winner: Showdown in Chinatown 2015)

  Published on Nov 9, 2014
  We had less than 3 weeks to make this film, starring 91-year old korean-American senior, Arthur Park, and shot in Honolulu, Hawaii.

Thoughts toward the end

Dad is 92, so statistically speaking he’s probably not long for this world. His cancer is metastatic and he’s in the hospital, which only reinforces the prognosis.

We’ve spoken about his approaching end, but as I’ve told many grieving friends and colleagues in the past, one can never actually be ready for it—no matter how long we’ve seen it coming.

What is happening inside me? Well, I have to tell you I’m rather a mess. Dad’s fondest wish is that his descendants all outlive him. Indeed, the alternative would be awful. I know all this, but I’m not actually ready to go through it.

So how am I processing all this? Not very well. And yet part of what’s happening is that I feel compelled to be a better man. When I got Thursday morning’s notice, “You’re eligible to donate life-giving blood!” the urge to run over to the blood center was powerful.

You see, Dad had a habit of donating blood. When I was still living at home, he would sometimes announce, “Going to give blood” before heading to the blood bank. Part of that was prudence: you build up credit, and if you need some units of blood in the future, you don’t have to buy them. I don’t know how many gallons he gave, but it was way beyond what he might ever credibly need. So the savings aspect wasn’t his only motivation. Giving blood, I learned, is something a man does.

And so, with Dad so many steps closer to the grave, I wanted to do something life-affirming—something Dad would do, or rather, something Dad did.

As Phillip stuck the needle into my arm that afternoon, I mentioned Dad’s habit. “Part of why I do this is I wanted to be like him. Still do!” I said, barely retaining my composure.

“That’s what a parent wants,” he returned. Indeed.

Something else is happening to me in these days: when I see young people, my paternal feelings arise a little more strongly than before. Perhaps that Socioemotional selectivity theory is kicking in: 18 months ago I felt like I’d live forever, but today I know better—that I’m unlikely to double my years. I probably don’t have even four decades left.

I can hear some of you laughing: “Four decades? I haven’t even been alive that long!” But I remember my grandmother telling me just the other day, when I six or seven years old, that this world goes by fast. I’m here to tell you that she was right. The other day I reported for work at my first “real” job as a development engineer at hp. That was about four decades ago.

A colleague spoke about a lack of enjoyment in life—particularly his work life. I thought about his words and wrote him a few paragraphs with my thoughts. Another young guy stood up to the boss in a meeting. He wasn’t defiant, but he declined to promise an earlier delivery date for one of his tasks. I wrote him some paragraphs about a similar experience I’d had in my earlier years, and encouraged him to keep up his self-awareness. Bowing to the pressure will only get you in trouble, I told him.

I’m not sure I would have done that two years ago; two years ago I’m not even sure I would have noticed what these guys were saying, or how it was an invitation for me to speak [or write] into their lives.

With young women, my paternal feelings come out even more strongly, perhaps because I have daughters. A young friend is starting a career in elementary education, and as I thought of her energy and her love blessing those kids, it made me feel so happy. I told her so, too.

And that brought to mind the passion and experience that the lovely Carol brings to her lessons, and to young mothers at a church group—I thought about how she’s blessing those students and those young mothers, and that made me happy, too. (I also told her.)

It is good to think about death sometimes, as this article notes. I’m not sure I want to greet each morning with, “It is a good day to die,” but I need to remember that I will die some day, probably before four decades are out. And also to think about people in my life who deserve good words from me—comfort or encouragement—and remember to be liberal with those gifts. If not today, then when? As the Bible says, Do not withhold good from those to whom it is due, when it is in your power to act. And not because something Bad will happen if I don’t, but because doing it will bring good into the world, in and through my life. And because that's what a man does.

Father's Day

Today is Father's Day. I wrote about my own dad in 2006, and a little last year about fathers in general. But I thought I'd try to summarize some of the things my dad did that make him a great father.

• He modeled his values to me. Does he preach these? No, he lives them:
  • Empathy: try to see thing from the other person's point of view. He didn't talk a lot about this, but when I remarked that something (a caterpillar?) was funny-looking, he remarked that I probably looked funny to that caterpillar, too.
  • "The people that made this thing weren't magicians. They made it; we can take it apart (and maybe fix it)." This isn't to say "I can do anything", but just a reminder not to give up too early.
  • Kindness: don't make someone feel bad without a really good reason. He was rather annoyed with a colleague who had ridiculed someone else. The deed was done; why make him feel worse?
  • Thrift is good, but never buy something you think might be stolen. It came out that a highly-paid individual at the office had bought a stolen TV set. He didn't have to tell me never to do that; his disdain for that guy stuck with me.
• I wrote about this 3½ years ago, but Dad taught me to do things by doing them with me -- how to wash the car, how to overhaul the cylinders and adjust drum brakes, this sort of thing.
• He always appreciates the food Mom prepares.
• "I'm proud of you!" There are a lot of guys who never hear that from their fathers. I'm glad to say Dad said that to me many times as I was growing up, and he hasn't stopped. Not to say I'm so great, but he makes me feel like I'm great.

Odd that I think of these things now that the kids are all but gone. I like to think I've practiced them as they grew up.

You may have noticed that I don't write as much about my mom as I do about my dad. This is not to say she's not a terrific mom too! I suppose, though, that I think about Dad's example more than Mom's because he's the one I more naturally emulate.

Dad, if you're reading this, I hope the rest of your Father's Day is a great one!

"You look funny to him, too, Son..."

It wasn't precisely the golden rule, but I learned it from my dad. I might have been 4 or 8 years old, somewhere in that range, and I saw an earthworm or caterpillar or something. You can guess what I said, based on the title above: "What a funny-looking worm (caterpillar, etc.)!"

That's the first lesson that I can remember on empathy.

Here's another valuable lesson from my dad: "The people that made this thing weren't magicians. They made it; we can take it apart (and maybe fix it)." A variant on this concept, which I've heard elsewhere, is "This didn't grow from a seed."

Something related Dad used to say was, "It's cheaper to fix it than to buy a new one."

Since those days, though, manufacturers have conspired against this ethic. They build something, and rather than putting it in a box, they pot it in plastic. "Try taking that apart," they seemed to be saying. Gaaa. Even when they don't do that, sometimes a required part has a higher retail price than a brand-new item. It costs somebody, probably an overworked underpaid sweatshop worker, more to make the new _______ than it would cost for the part, but from my wallet's point of view....

Markets, and marketing have managed to contradict some things my dad told me about machines and devices. But what he taught me about people and relationships endures.

Once he told us about two colleagues. One of them had bought something -- a bell, maybe a bell for a burglar alarm or something like this. My dad's other colleague ridiculed the purchase, saying he had paid way too much -- "You wuz robbed!" -- that sort of thing. Dad was annoyed with this second colleague. What's the point in making the first one feel bad, was his comment.

What's the point indeed. I should keep this idea in mind more often.

Another time he told me about someone who wanted him to fix his TV set. Take it to a shop, my dad said. "I can't -- I think it's hot!" the fellow told him. This was the wrong thing to say to my dad. He was disgusted. "This guy makes $35,000 a year! He can afford a TV set! Why did he support the TV thief?" That was a lot of money in those days.

Dad had no patience for mean people or criminals, or people who support them financially.

There's a lot more he taught me, but I'll close today's essay with this important lesson, which has served me well, particularly since I am the only human male in our household:

"Always put the seat back down."

Happy Fathers' Day, Dad!

What I miss

Thursday morning, after dropping the kids at school, I drove up the peninsula to Susan's office where we talked about an important issue, which I'll describe briefly before I tell you about something I miss.

I hate to use generalizations like "the difference between men and women" but she described this as being a classic male/female communication, ah, issue. In the archetypal scenario (which I've shamelessly stolen from the Mayhalls' Marriage Takes More than Love -- NavPress, some time in the '70s or '80s I think), the couple is about to go somewhere.

The wife says something like, "I think I'll change into something else."

The husband was ready to go 15 minutes ago, so he just says, "OK," and goes back to reading the paper or whatever.

She stands there looking at him. He notices her and says, "I thought you were going to change?"

She says, "Don't you like what I'm wearing?"

OK, I probably have that wrong, but the basic idea illustrated here is that sometimes the words do not mean what they say. The husband was responding to what the words said, but what the wife wanted was a response to the feeling that produced the words.

So this is something I need to apply to my life. Not just with my wife, but in any relationship that's not strictly functional. First, mirror the feeling, maybe something like this: "I'm wondering if..." or "It sounds like that was frustrating for you," or whatever the feeling might be. The husband in the above example, if he was a genius, might have looked at her and said, "I think you look beautiful in what you're wearing right now." This isn't really mirroring the feeling, but he's responding to the feeling that produced the words. Or maybe he could have just said, "Oh?" in an inviting way. Then she might have said, "I'm not sure that what I'm wearing will be..." and the husband might say, "Sounds like you're worried that..." In just a few seconds, she will be thinking "I'm so glad my husband understands me!" I'll leave it to your imagination what might happen later that night at home, after they come back from wherever they were going.

Second, if my, umm, drat it, how do you say "相手" in English? "interlocutor"?? Anyway, if my interlocutor (the lovely Carol, or whoever else I'm talking to) describes an incident that frustrated him/her, I should say, "What do you think you might do next time?" I should say this even if -- especially if -- I'm thinking, "No wonder it blew up in your face; you should have...." Because until s/he is ready to hear the advice, there is no profit in offering it. None. This is not a case of "pearls before swine," but about offering "a word aptly spoken."

Third, only after my 相手 has shared her/his feelings, I can say, "Would you like to hear my perspective on that?" Or, "...a suggestion?" If they say yes, only then give the suggestion. Even if they start the conversation with, "X happened; what would you have done?" I should not answer the question! Not until I say, "It sounds like/I'm wondering if that was frustrating for you" and probably not until after I ask, "What do you think you might do next time?"

Anyway, I wrote those steps down in my notebook, and I hope I can remember them when needed

Now, about what I miss. Susan prayed for me, asking the Lord to show me what I needed to see or work on. At first I came out blank, and then an incident from the past came to mind. I must have been a teen-ager, because I was still living at home, and my dad and I were adjusting or overhauling the brakes on my mom's '71 VW. I can picture it now -- 4x4s or maybe bricks behind the front tires, the left rear wheel off. We had one of those things you attach to an electric drill to rough up the inside of the brake cylinder, and Dad was there with me, walking me through the process of inserting the device into the cylinder, then running the drill slowly while moving the device over the length of the cylinder. He told me what to be careful of, then I think I reassembled the cylinder, piston, etc. Then the brake drum went back on and he told me how to move the adjuster with a screwdriver -- tighten it, make sure the wheel spins freely, tighten it again, until the wheel just barely doesn't spin freely -- then back the adjuster off one notch. Somewhere in there we bled the brakes, which is always a 2-man job. When we were done, Dad told Mom that we fixed her brakes. I felt both proud of having done it, yet a little nervous because of the great responsibility. But Dad had supervised the whole process so I knew it was right.

It seems like a long time since someone has walked me through a process like that -- something I didn't know how to do, wasn't sure I could do, maybe wasn't even sure I wanted to do, and yet something significant, something important, something I felt proud of having learned and done afterwards. I wonder if that's why those adult ed classes are so popular.

At home and especially at work, it falls upon me to be the mentor and teacher.

Susan asked me if there as an area of life in which I felt tired. That's easy -- creating and executing the budget! She suggested I call Crown Ministries and talk to them about a budget coach. I think I will.