Mango Bombs and Turtle Galas

I have GOT to find a new hobby. Once again, Don and I are packing our stuff and things to move to a different address - at least it isn't stuff and things and furniture. But day after tomorrow, we are out of the oceanfront bungalow and on to a one-bedroom condo about ten minutes north. The great thing is that it is in one of my favorite resorts on the island. The not-so-great is that it is pretty grim and small. But it's clean and pretty cheap, so we're considering ourselves quite blessed. The other great thing is that we're only there until 12/8, when we fly over to the mainland for Christmas!! Yay!! But this moving around thing is getting a bit tiring, and as of this writing, we still don't have a long-term home when we get back here on New Year's Eve. But we trust that the Lord has something for us - but the waiting is always the toughest part.

So, we're leaving our seaside abode. We have had some great times here, culminating with our Thanksgiving where we had a small but hungry mob here. Along with the usual gluttony and gridiron, we played some Maui Bocce ball. Don't bother to look it up - it's our own weird invention. Our version is played with (what else) COCONUTS!! This place has four coconut palms that are extraordinarily generous. A cleanout (not by us but by the good guys that live on the property) of the overgrown banana trees yielded about twenty of the things. We made a little green coconut seed-looking thing our pallino or target ball, and then rolled away. The learning curve was pretty funny to watch. Not only are these "balls" not round, they have the actual hard fruit inside the husk that shift and wobble them even more. It was a hoot!

One of the more dramatic features of this small property is a couple of forty-foot mango trees - one of which is right next to our bungalow, and the upper branches lean over the house. It does much to keep the house cool, but now that the mangos are ripening, and there is no one with a cherry (or mango) picker to go get them, it means that the tree will no occasion drop one of these golden tropical fruits right onto our house. The first time I heard it, Don was at Bible Study and I was home under the weather. I heard a thud, then roll roll roll. I grabbed my cell phone and something with which I could inflict pain, and sat quivering like the courageous adventurer I am, wondering if I should call 911 or just go screaming into the night. Fortunately, I chose a third option: remain frozen in fear until Don got home. It was the next morning when we found the little orangy-yellow bombs in the courtyard in front of our house. Since then, it has become quite a bit of entertainment, as we try to imagine from how far the dropping fruit has fallen based on the decibel of the thud onto the tin roof. Yes, we are astonishingly easy to please.

The past two months, we have enjoyed nightly sunsets over the island of Lana'i, sitting on the deck next by the seawall watching and waving to the sunset dinner cruises as well as a dozen or more turtles that mosey along, enjoying the salad bar that grows on the reef. These floating round-top boulders sometimes drift in, but more often than not, defy the currents, popping a dour looking head up every so often to gulp air.

The colors of sunsets are always remarkable, and the sea turns into an orange and pink liquid mirror. Most evenings, teams of outrigger canoe paddlers will come gliding past, each paddler digging into the water in perfect unison with his fellow watermen, creating a moving piece of Hawaiiana art. Of course, we also enjoy the morning paddlers, which instead of well-trained and perfectly synchronized paddlers has up to four tourists in between the front and back paddler. Not only do they lack the unity of the afore mentioned athletes, but many of them seem to lack coordination altogether. I can identify. Occasionally, there will be somebody - usually someone identifyable as the Dad - who has not just the lack of coordination and strength, but any enthusiasm at all. You can just see in his posture "I'm paying out the wahzoo for the family to visit this place - I'll be danged if I'm gonna paddle these people around the Pacific." Don can really identify.

So, we'll miss these sights. We'll miss going to sleep with the waves, and waking up to the same music. We'll miss watching the moonlight bounce along the shimmering black sea, with bright flashes leaping from ripple to ridge to swell. We've seen a shark swim by TWICE, and have seen spotted eagle rays gather for what could be politely described as group procreation. We even saw a ray break free of the water and glide through the air for a few feet. Maybe somebody goosed him during the orgy - anybody's guess. These things we will miss.

But....we need a home. I, for one, have grown weary of the nomadic life, but I have also watched my husband's faith grow by leaps and bounds. I'm blessed by that and by him every day. In all of this, neither of us have EVER questioned whether or not we should be here. It's tough. In fact, it's the hardest thing we've ever done - except for raising our sons. But somewhere in time, "hard" started to be a bad thing. If it is hard, it must not be meant to be. Well, Praise God that the Pilgrims didn't think that way. Or the Pioneers who moved west. Or the doctors and scientists who sacrifice personal lives in order to extend and improve our lives. Or those in the military and other first responders who stand in harm's way on the frontlines all to protect total strangers. Or Jesus, as He was tortured and brutally murdered as an innocent man, all so He could spend eternity with us who daily let Him down. Nope. Hard is a beautiful thing.

I just need to keep reminding myself of that as I pack and take to the road again.