Mixed and Nuts: A Conversation with Francine
(Originally written 09/18/07)
Tonight I had a session with Francine. I started off by telling her how bankruptcy proceedings went. All in all, I would say they went pretty well. Everything was short and too the point, as the courtroom was packed with stoic, glass-eyed transients waiting to have their credit reduced to ashes.
While I was waiting for my turn, I began thinking about bankruptcy and all that had transpired to bring me to that exact moment and place in my life. I emotionally flatlined on this thought, initially; I was—after all—next in line and wanted to keep my head clear. It wasn’t until I was shuttled through the barrage of brief questions, made nice with my lawyer, and stepped into the echoing air of a very empty St. Mary’s Cathedral that I really started to feel the weight of my position in life.
I guess I just feel like I’m not enough. I worry about being a good enough father to my children. What kind of example am I? Am I giving them enough attention? Am I teaching them the right things? Am I doing all that I can to give them every advantage in this world? Will they turn out to be well-rounded, happy people?
I worry about being enough for my wife. I worry about giving her enough time and then, on top of that, enough attention; enough romance—sometimes simply just being man enough for her. She deserves to be loved, but will I have enough love in me to give? Is there enough to go around?
I wonder about being enough in the business world to succeed. After all, this most recent year seemed to leave a trail of broken deadlines and eroded relationships with clients and contractors alike. By all appearances, I’m good at fooling people on the front end, but once they’ve signed contracts, eventually things unravel. It was pretty consistent in 2006. Deadlines or obligations fell down. Contractors—both locally and overseas—fell down; what could I have done to prevent that? (Funny, as I write this, I realize that the name of the overseas contractor is also the name of the music CD to listen to today. I never played it, but it’s sitting next to me on the desk.)
Ultimately, I feel like I’ve been struggling for a very long time. The Holy Grail I’ve been striving for? “Financial independence,” I tell myself. “Security.” “Freedom.” Noble trappings, certainly, but how successful have I been, for all the blood, sweat and tears over the years? In real estate investing? In numerous the numerous failed or small-potatoes web design company start-up’s? I feel like I work incredibly hard and have incredibly little to show for it. Sure, I have stories. (I haven’t figured out the way to pay the bills on those yet, but I’m sure I’ll try it for a while at some point.) I’ve had massive financial losses. I’ve had evictions, foreclosures, and meetings with lawyers (who sometimes conveniently barter for web work.) I’ve had business partners go bad (and eventually die) when they discovered cocaine. I’ve had trusted salespeople try to steal my clients away to the competition. I’ve had tours of my income properties with the local police department as they searched for drug paraphernalia. I’ve had properties destroyed by tenants.
So, after all this, I guess I’m wondering, “Where’s mine?” I have a beautiful family, I have my health, and all my friends and family are around me. I am blessed; I know this. So, why can I not be still? Why don’t I just lay in front of the TV after the kids have gone to bed (okay, some nights I do) and go to bed at a reasonable hour like everybody else I know? Will all my striving eventually lead to something of substance for me, my family, my clients (and dare I say it, the world), or is everything I touch destined to be a slew of work that gets set down in a year or two, in lieu of the next effort? Labor-intensive and as temporary as footprints in the sand; why do I bother at all?
Such was my mindset as I drove home after praying to God that—if I wasn’t on the right track—may correction and redirection be swift—as in, by the end of the week. My wife, no doubt sensed this from across town, and called, proceeding to give me the best rah-rah speech I have ever received. Grace told me about how thankful she was that it was me she hooked up with. She drew a comparison to her past almost-marriage and pointed to us as the source of aliveness and growth. She recognized my hard work and she told me she was proud of me. She told me she loved me even when she was piping-hot mad at me. She told me I was a good father. I cried quietly so she wouldn’t hear.
I told Francine all of this. I also told her how I went to church this weekend. Not a Catholic church—a non-denominational; the “church with all the flags”, Mt. Hope. There is some prologue to this church we’re going to skip for right now, but suffice it to say I wanted a connection here. I knew they had a pastor who was a talented speaker and I didn’t want to have a homily read to me like I experienced last time I went to my Catholic church. I wanted a message.
Pulling into the parking lot, I noticed the street number was 202. I told Francine about my infatuation with xyx patterns, which was apparently new ground for us. Upon parking, I walked past a van that obviously had the distinct pleasure of belonging to a very enthusiastic couple (Amber + Josh, it said) who had just gotten married. The windows were covered in soap graffiti. One window in particular held an image that was out of place for a church parking lot on Sunday morning. A heart had been drawn over, being mischievously converted into a pentagram that pointed down. I walked in anyways.
Once the service started, it was three long, energizing songs, followed by the taking up of the collection. (Isn’t this supposed to happen AFTER the sermon?) Well, the head pastor was there, but he introduced a visiting pastor who began to speak to putting your faith into action—in the form of tithing. This wasn’t just any tithing—this was tithing to the church as the hand of God in the community. This speaker had a great collection of statistics to back his argument up. He spoke about how tithing has fallen considerably since 2002. He gave the breakdown across denominations. He pulled from the Bible to illustrate the error of our ways.
It was during this tirade that I happened to look over at a young couple sitting two benches in front of me (I don’t think they’re referred to as “pews” when the celebration is held in an auditorium.) The guy was wearing a beige polo, which wasn’t notable, but the logo—usually located on the left breast of a polo shirt—was on the shoulder. What’s more, the embroidered logo was a little red devil, clutching his gut with laughter.
That was enough for me. I got up and left, mid-sermon. A young man with a pronounced limp hobbled from his station by the door to open it for me. I thanked him and felt better once I was on the road home.