Yesterday my mom and dad hired three of the kids to pick rocks out of their (cheap, obviously) topsoil, and since the other child was at her regular job, I had most of the morning to write. I say “most” because I did have some other tasks to do. When there are no minions to order about, I’m the one who has to pick up the household slack, shocker. So my writing time was punctuated with washing up the breakfast dishes and then hanging out two loads of laundry.

You know, I rarely hang laundry any more. The kids are the ones that get to do battle with whippy winds and wet clothes, their fingers going numb in the process. But they’re young. They have excellent circulation, so I figure they can endure better than I. But yesterday was warm with crystal-blue skies. As I strung up the clothes, my freshly-oxygenated mind roamed over a whole passel of ideas in the most productive and invigorating of ways. It was lovely.

The clothing hung, I walked back to the house, my roiling brain still deep in esoteric thoughts that, if captured properly, I’m convinced, would make me a millionaire. As I climbed the porch steps, I was phrasing a brilliant sentence just so when my flipflop snagged the edge of the step and I found myself studying the porch concrete much more closely than I am accustomed. (It’s gray. Also, hard.) I was immediately aware of the neighbors’ voices across the road and I flipped onto my back, hoping they hadn’t witnessed my stunt. (They hadn’t. Thank you, bushes.)

I lay on my back in a puddle of sunlight and pondered the porch beams.

“Did that really just happen?” I asked out loud.

“Yeah, it did,” I said, answering my own questions. “That just happened.”

Of course the moment I hit the ground, all my profound thoughts scattered. Just like that, my world screeched to a halt. My perspective, quite literally, changed.

It’s ironic, isn’t it. I march through life like I own it, but one floppy flipflop and everything shifts. One second walking, my head in the clouds; the next flat on my back. My fragility is stunning. I am so totally not invincible.

I sat up. My knee hurt. It burned with a ferociousness I had forgotten existed. How long had it been since I’d skinned my knee on concrete? Years, probably. Maybe decades, even. So this is why kids cry when they fall down, I thought. Maybe I’ll be a little more sympathetic next time.

I hobbled back into the house, checked my knee for blood (there was none—I’m a wimp), and settled back on the couch for some more writing. And at noon I went over to my parents’ house and ate lunch with the crew: scalloped potatoes with hot dogs and carrots, fresh applesauce, and tapioca with barely-thawed strawberries.

The end.

This same time, years previous: the wiggles, the greats, and Chinese apple and cabbage salad.

Last night was the last in a series of nine money management classes that my husband and I co-facilitated. I felt a bit awkward, doing the class. I mean, here we were sharing a process that has so radically changed how we handle money and yet, oh dear, what if everyone thinks the whole thing is stupid?

No one said that, of course. They were much too polite.

But the situation is kind of rough. Basically, you take a group of people, people who are fairly comfortable and confident with how they’ve been handling money (because, Hello, we aren’t walking around naked and starving, are we?) but yet are willing to shell out $93 because they want to improve. You spend the next nine weeks showing them how they are doing everything all wrong and then try to get them to change their habits by telling them they must do lots of super-hard work. To top off the whole sorry mess, the lead (and very gifted) teacher is opinionated, sports spotty theology (by my standards), and often rubs people the wrong way. Plus, in recent months he’s gotten in legal and ethical trouble—clearly, the guy is no saint. And yet I still want people to spend nine hours watching him prance back and forth on a fancy stage and then do what he says because, dagnabbit, it works.

Like I said, AWKWARD.

(Also, I am so not a good salesperson, what with my freakish tendency to flaunt the underbelly and all. “Oo-oh! Agony, turmoil, irritation, stress, and despair can all be yours for a small fee of just ninety-three dollars! Sign up now!” This is me selling the class. Someone shut me up.)

In last night’s meeting, I asked the group how they have changed as a result of the class. Answers included:

“My wife and I are more on the same page than ever before.”
“I’m paying more attention.”
“I’m no longer afraid of money.”
“I’m tightening things up.”
“I want my kids to learn this.”

One guy said that he’s feeling both better and worse. Better because he feels like he has a more complete understanding of their financial situation for the first time ever, and worse because, well, the financial situation.

And then I told them (yet again) that it may take another 18 months (at least) of steady chipping away (i.e. making a monthly zero-based budget, attacking debt, etc) before they will start to see any notable difference. And even then, there might not be much! Discouragement will probably continue to be the predominant feeling for a good while. But also! There will be the pride that comes from tackling a difficult job head on, and, if married, the satisfaction that comes from team work! (Actually, I didn’t say that part about pride and team work last night, but I wish I had. Because it’s true.)

We’ll be hosting another class this spring, and our youth pastor will be teaching a junior level of this stuff to our youth group. If you’re interested in the adult class (final dates TBA), let me know.

Signed,
Your Guide To Misery and … (fingers crossed!) Beyond!

This same time, years previous: refrigerator bran muffins, sparkle blondies, chicken salad, and how it really is.