News Trend Good Hope|Actual

My house is trashed right now.

We're in the middle of a painting project so the contents of one half of house have been dumped in the other half.

And in the midst of that moving process, I discovered water damage to one of the walls. So now the painting project, in all of its drop-clothed and masking-taped glory, is on hold while we march in a team of moisture abatement specialists to deal with the water issue.

Undoubtedly, that problem stems from the master shower. So the chaos will soon be stretching an ugly tentacle upstairs as we face the much needed and long overdue demo of half our bathroom and who knows how much reconstruction work.

As Ranger and I sit in the disheveled family room this morning, staring at a soggy hole in the wall and waiting for the workman to come, my eyes found a miracle. Tucked into the corner, as yet untouched by these wild winds of change, one little bookcase sits quiet and serene.

This oasis of normal makes me happy and gives me good hope in the midst of this mess.

News Trend The Great Seattle Graffiti Wall|Actual

During the photo-posting extravaganza that was my fourth-born's golden birthday celebration, I came across this shot of my then-fifteen-year-old, impersonating a T in front of an amazing wall of graffiti.

Memories quickly came rolling in as I recalled the day that I went by myself in pursuit of this legendary place.

Yes, my daughters accompanied me on my second trip to the wall, but the first trip was a solo run. When they heard that I was going alone to explore the back side of a warehouse in a gritty city neighborhood, they all questioned my sanity. But when they saw the photos and heard the amazing story that I brought home, the only question on their minds was whether we could go back the next day.

Those photos of mine popped right up on on my Facebook laman, where I shared them as part of an ongoing digital tour of Seattle, undertaken to give my Malaysian friends a first-had look at my city. Here are my favorite excerpts from that album, along with the original captions from July 20, 2009:

^ so one day nasir and i were talking about street art and graffiti, and it got me to thinking about this place i'd heard of, called the great seattle graffiti wall.

The story goes that down in the industrial part of seattle, the owners of a warehouse decided to allow graffiti on their building...And that it was a pretty amazing thing to see.

So today i decided to go see for myself. I found the front of the warehouse, painted ugly grey...But as i walked toward the back, i saw this wrting on the building and knew i was in the right place.

Smile emoticon

^ this is the full view of the back of the warehouse. the art literally covers every bit of the building that you can see from this shot. it was such a blast of energy and color...i couldn't believe my eyes.

^ i took some shots of the building, just to help you get oriented. then i went crazy on close-ups.

^ from this shot, you can get an idea of how there are just layers and layers of designs.

^ "Paint runnin in my veins - like a vet staring at trains.

And then, this happened:

^ ok this pic has a very special story that goes with it. I already told it to nur bahiyah so she will help me tell it to you:

streicher.Diane: so i was at this graffiti wall today, right?

Streicher.Diane: i was alone behind this warehouse

streicher.Diane: near railroad tracks

streicher.Diane: no one around

Nur Bahiyah: yeah

streicher.Diane: but a man sitting in like a big SUV

streicher.Diane: it was kinda freaky but i just walked along and took all my pics

streicher.Diane: and i hear a voice saying...Hey, lady

streicher.Diane: which, first of all, let me say... LOLZ

streicher.Diane: 'lad'?

Streicher.Diane: 'lady'*?

Streicher.Diane: that just makes me laugh

streicher.Diane: but anyway i turn around, and this gangsta ish man is walking over to me

streicher.Diane: crap

Nur Bahiyah: oh god

Nur Bahiyah: then

streicher.Diane: i say, yes?

Streicher.Diane: and he says, why are you taking pictures

streicher.Diane: and i said cuz i think its really cool

streicher.Diane: he is standing by me now

streicher.Diane: and he says, wait here

streicher.Diane: and he starts walking back to his truck

streicher.Diane: im like...Oh shoot, hes gonna get me

streicher.Diane: but he takes a bag out of the back

Nur Bahiyah:

Nur Bahiyah: what is in the bag?

Streicher.Diane: and i realize right away that its a bag of spray paint can

Nur Bahiyah: pictures?

Streicher.Diane: cans*

Nur Bahiyah: ohh ok ok

streicher.Diane: and he says....Im gonna teach you how to paint

streicher.Diane: hehehehehehehe

Nur Bahiyah:

Nur Bahiyah: thats cool

streicher.Diane: it was AWESOME

Nur Bahiyah: so you learn how to paint it eh?

Streicher.Diane: yes

streicher.Diane: he was gonna write my name for me

streicher.Diane: but he only got the D finished and he had to leave

streicher.Diane: but he told me to buy some paint and come back

streicher.Diane: he wants to see my name on that wall

Nur Bahiyah: have u take the D's picture?

Streicher.Diane: of course

* * * * *

So that is the story of how I learned to paint graffiti from a straight-up Escalade-driving g at the Great Seattle Graffiti Wall. And while I do not expect to ever top that experience in my whole entire life, I must say that the next day's visit, with two of my daughters and one splendid niece, was pretty darn special too.

News Trend The Gifts Of Easter|Actual

This is how much God loved the world:

He gave his Son, his one and only Son.

The very best thing about Easter, I think, is that it offers a gift for everyone in the whole wide world.

The point of the whole 'Jesus dying on a cross and then raising from the dead' drama was to demonstrate God's crazy love and bottomless forgiveness for human beings.

All human beings. God loves the whole world.

And this is why: so that no one need be destroyed; by believing in him,

anyone can have a whole and lasing life.

God made one thing very clear - he didn't put Jesus up on a cross to die just to save

Jesus' friends and followers,

the future self-proclaimed Christians, or

the perfect people in the world.

God loves each and every one of us.

He let Jesus die for each and every one of us.

Doesn't really matter how we might feel about God.

He adores us all exactly as we are and he wants us all to live in love, joy, peace and hope.

God didn't go to all the trouble of sending his Son merely

to point an accusing finger, telling the world how bad it was.

He came to help, to put the world right again.

God offers you and me his unending, unfathomable love and forgiveness, and what we decide to do about that is completely up to us.

So we are free to practice any religion we want:

Judaism,

Islam,

Hinduism, Buddhism, Taoism,

Christianity,

Or no religion at all.

God gives each and every one of us the freedom to chose.

Anyone who trusts in him is acquitted.

But if we decide that we want to claim his promise of boundless love and infinite forgiveness, well, that offer is always on the table.

And all we need to do to receive the joyful gifts of Easter is to simply reach out and take them.

* * * * *

More Easter stories? Yes.

Easter All Over Again

About Easter

Ham Dinner

New Life

The Gifts Of Easter

What I Know About Easter

What Is Easter Dinner?

Easter Dinner

Good Friday

Maundy Thursday

Easter Morning In Malaysia

Easter Eats

The Very Colorful Easter Art

Better Than Bunnies Part Two

Better Than Bunnies Part One

News Trend Life Of A Math Teacher: Little Brothers|Actual

An adorable boy, surrounded by people who love him.

"Five...Six...Seven...Where's eight? Where's eight???"

As I stepped into my student's home for our Tuesday algebra lesson, I was met with an interesting sight.

A seven-year-old boy in a fuzzy blue bathrobe buzzed like a bee at the far end of the dining room table. Scattered in front of him were a set of algebra workbooks numbered - you guessed it - from one to ten, and our hero was frantically arranging them in chronological order.

Dropping my bags at my usual seat, I walked down to Marshall's end to watch him work.

"I'm putting my brother's books in order," he explained.

"But you are still looking for number eight," I observed.

"Yes. Eight, eight, EIGHT!" He pulled the book out of the heap and waved it triumphantly.

"And here's nine...And ten!" Proudly, he fanned the books in sequential order but then a storm cloud passed onto his face.

"Where's four?"

As he scrambled through the neatly arranged books, checking and double-checking the number on each cover, I noticed that underneath the pile lay one last book, its pages opened and its cover hidden, mostly buried by the rest of the collection. Without comment, I pulled the top edge of the booklet up an inch or two to subtly make its presence known.

He noticed it right away. "What's THIS?" he burst out as he whisked the book off the table and flipped it shut to read the title number, all in one fluid motion.

"FOUR!! I found them all!"

As Marshall finalized his arrangement with a flourish, his fourteen-year-old sister and I exchanged a quiet smile and, assuming Marshall would soon be moving off to new adventures, we sat down together to begin our lesson.

But within moments, we realized that Marshall had other plans.

Seating himself across from me, with his sister sandwiched between us at the head of the table, Marshall ceremoniously opened up a three-ring binder that was literally bursting with a fresh load of loose-leaf paper, picked up a pencil and looked at me expectantly.

Clearly, this math lesson had just become a threesome.

I smiled at him encouragingly then turned my attention to his sister and launched into my spiel.

Right away, I noticed him eyeing my box of colored markers. Moving them to within his arm's reach, I invited him to help himself. Then I picked up one for myself and wrote at the top of my page:

Lesson 119.

I jumped into my lecture on the merits of the quadratic formula; from the corner of my eye, I noticed Marshall writing intently. After a few moments, he stopped and stared at me, clearly seeking my attention.

"Yes, Marshall?"

He silently turned his book round and presented it to me. Across the top of his laman, marked in sturdy second-grade penmanship read "Lesson 119."

I fought back the urge to run around the table and hug him.

"Hey, nice work." I said. He beamed.

Three minutes later, we repeated the cycle. This time, he had boldly added "lima x 20 = 100."

"That's right," said his sister. "Good job."

No longer feigning interest in his own calculations, Marshall simply sat and stared as we plowed on through our equations. He followed our give-and-take with rapt attention, and when his sister asked him to help us - "Marshall, what's two plus six?" - he practically sprang from his seat as he belted out the answer.

Right around this time, his mom popped her head into the room to deliver some news: "Marshall, you were too sick to go to school this morning but I think you're feeling a lot better now. So let's get you some lunch and I'll run you over to school for the afternoon."

"Okay," Marshall replied agreeably.

But once Mom had disappeared back into the kitchen, he turned to his sister and me and confided, "I don't need to go to kid school anymore. I'm ready for teenager school with you."

* * * * *

I love teaching math. The calculations and computations bring me pleasure, and opening my students' minds to these puzzles and processes is sheer joy. This exciting journey and oftentimes considerable challenge is what gets us math teachers out of bed in the morning.

But to step into my students' homes and directly share in the ups and downs of their daily life - that is a special privilege and a blessing that few teachers get to enjoy. I never take for granted the intimate and personal connection that I make with my students and their families.

And while this story of a math-loving boy is delightful on any level, I want to share one more detail. Though he has been welcomed and accepted and loved as much as any son, Marshall is a foster child in this family. It's been just six months since he was taken from chaos and placed in this stable, loving environment, and to see him bloom and grow as he has just fills my heart with hope and joy.

I'm already dreaming of the day when he will be my student too.

* * * * *

Read more stories about my life as a math teacher:

Social Distancing

Playing With A Full Deck

The (Math) Joke's On Me

Sharing Life

Little Brothers

Sweet Inspiration

My Hero

What I Do

Number 15

Christmas Edition

3.1415926

Buy It And Burn It

In Honor Of James K. Polk

House Tours

My Deep Gladness

Isolating The Radical

By The Numbers

Teaching My Own: High School Art And Algebra

News Trend A Long-Distance Easter Basket|Actual

The Easter Bunny either doesn't know or doesn't care that my third-born is living in Vietnam again this year. Because on his special day of celebration, he filled her basket with all the usual sweet treats and hid it for her in the dining room, along with her sisters' surprises.

Sometimes, when I am staring in the face of the fact that my daughter is far across the ocean from me, a little bit of denial gets me through the day.

News Trend My Definition Of Resting|Actual

^Welcome to my freshly pressure-washed front porch.

^ Yes, it's still damp in places, and there are plenty of errant leaves and wandering clumps of dirt. But you can now clearly make out the stones in the paving - whereas before you saw only shades of grey - and that is dramatic improvement.

^ This whole messy project owes its timing to this green sculpture. I caught sight of it while wandering around a store over a week ago, and resisted at first its siren call. Using one of my tried-and-true anti-impulse shopping techniques, I went home empty handed and tried to forget about this forbidden love. When Monday morning came, and I was still obsessed, I knew I was ready to commit to the purchase.

I have no regrets.

^ Someone who hates loud machines and spraying water suffered through a long afternoon. Of course, he was duly rewarded with a nice long walk, though he had to cool his heels through this photo session to boot.

* * * * *

Saturday morning:

10 a.M. Wake up feeling like crap. The cold I've been fighting off all week has taken hold and my head feels full of concrete. I need more sleep.

1 p.M. Still feel terrible but I'm missing out on Saturday. I need to get up but I'll be sure to take it easy.

2 p.M. So far, so good. I'm dressed and fed, and I cleaned the bathrooms. As long as I'm up and moving, I might as well do something productive.

Pressure washes the driveway and sidewalk for five hours.

7 p.m.  Wait. I'm muddy, soaked to the skin, and pretty sure these chills I'm getting are not a good sign. Even though I haven't finished the job, maybe I should call it a day.

8 p.M. Showered and wrapped in a blanket, drooping on the couch. Someone please bring me dinner.

Hamburgers, movies, intermittent naps and rib-rattling coughs ensue.

1 a.M. Awake again and feeling fresh. Hey, I think I'll finish that pressure washing job tomorrow.

* * * * *

P.S. Sunday evening:

This cold is still getting the best of me. But I managed complete my soggy task and that sweet success makes me feel on top of the world.

I didn't get much rest over the weekend. But I have absolutely no regrets.

News Trend On Writers and Talkers|Actual

"Writing is really very easy. Tap a vein and bleed onto the halaman.

Everything else is just technical." - Derrick Jensen

Some people are natural-born talkers.

Fluidly and fluently, they express their thoughts out loud, reaching for words only to find them waiting on the the tips of their tongues, setting them free on a spoken breeze.

These types generally find the process of writing things down to be a bit cumbersome. Too slow. Too unwieldy. The words stick to the page - physical or digital - in a weighted-down way that loses their shimmering qualities and takes the fun out of discourse.

I think this is a lovely way to be.

"Writing is a socially acceptable form of getting naked in public." - Paulo Coelho

But different are the gifts of the writers. We - for I dare to count myself among them - come at communicating from a divergent angle. We find our words not at the tips of our tongues but from a place much deeper inside, and we need time to let those thoughts slowly bubble up from within. Kind of like a good burp.

Putting our ideas down on paper is a vital step in the process of communication. We need to look them over, rearrange this bit and that, make sure that the pieces fit together just so. To blurt them out prematurely is to lose control over our meaning - there's no way to take back a spoken word and reshape it properly. Our writer's hearts feel a strong responsibility to get the word, the sentence, the whole paragraph right the first time.

This, too, is  a perfectly nice way to be.

"To me, the greatest pleasure of writing is not what it's about but the inner music that

words make." - Truman Capote

Now, certainly there are some ambidextrous types are clever enough to do both well. They find writing and talking to feel equally agreeable, and my hat is off to them.

And perhaps there are some interesting ways in which talkers feel misunderstood by writers. I'm open to that idea.

But what's on my mind today is the notion, often held by talkers, that writers should be able to talk in the same way that they write, if only they would put down their pencils long enough to do so.

Mmm. I see the logic in that idea. But we just don't work like that.

(And it's not that all writers are introverts, and all talkers are extroverts. The spectrum of social engagement preferences is a whole nother kettle of fish which I will not attempt to fry today.)

The simple truth is that writers talk differently than they write.

"Write a wise saying and your name will live forever." - Anonymous

We can't help it. Oh sure, we can carry on our fair share of chit-chat and conduct business just fine. But if you really want to pry under our hoods and get our thoughts about the deeper, more intricate aspects of life, we might not offer up a spectacular conversation. It's not that we aren't interested; we're just built for something different than the fire hose of oral speech.

So talkers, please don't take it personally when the writers in your life clam up a bit in face-to-face conversation. We're just wired that way.

And if you really want to know what a writer is thinking, you can always drop us a line.