Winter had come early in the fall of 2009, cutting short my income stream for the year. And, like so many others, we were feeling the impact of the recession as we began the work season in the Spring.

Then, seemingly adding insult to injury, near midnight one blustery evening in late April, a tempestuous storm out of the south ripped the roof off our circa-70′s old barn and propelled the deadly amalgam of steel sheeting, wooden rafters, and rusty nails into the side of our house.

The impact was completely alien and absolutely thunderous, rattling the entire home down to its foundation, and causing significant damage. A 2×6 beam exploded through our bedroom window just two feet over the head of my sleeping wife – who was startled into terrifying wakefulness amidst a shower of shrapnel in the form of broken glass, splinters, and fragments of our blinds.

So severe were the winds on that harrowing night, the neighbor had to bring his tractor over and park it atop the mess to keep it from moving further north and on to its next victim (bless his soul for racing over to help when he heard the demonic din of shrieking nails being torn free of their resting place of three decades; the thunderous,haunted moaning of the tin roof being curled up and folded over by a heartless and cruel, ruefully omnipotent Mother Nature)…

What a night! Thank goodness for insurance, right? The adjuster came and the insurance company sent us a check to repair the broken window and patch the numerous holes in the gable (where, in the morning, we found timbers actually impaled into the side thereof). They also included a portion of the barn money to begin its rebuild. Coincidentally, the amount sent to us was just what was needed at the moment to catch up on all the bills after a lean winter that was carrying us into the work season running on fiscal fumes.

Unfortunately, however, in our efforts to square up with our myriad creditors, utilities, etcetera, we no longer had the resources available to actually repair the old barn. This was problematic because the insurance company had sent the remaining balance for the claim to our mortgage company. And they informed us that we would receive the payment once an inspector had verified completion of the repair work. (Ironic, considering our lender felt the tired, old barn yielded almost no worth to the value of our property during the appraisal.)

Well, life continued on for us. The barn would have to wait, because I was in the heaviest part of my season and there wasn’t a moment to spare.

So I worked, the kids grew… and then in July we learned that my wife was pregnant. Having been blessed with 4 sons already – all of which came through relatively simple and easy pregnancies, we were taken off guard when my wife’s health plummeted.

So significant was her decline, that for a time in late Summer, she was bedridden. Not having family available to make a long term visit, I was compelled to somewhat neglect the operations of my business and tend to the needs of my wife and my four sons for several weeks.

As a result of these vicissitudes of life, we approached Winter not having successfully saved up for the offseason.

Recognizing that things were looking a bit bleak, I took a job doing finish carpentry 200 miles to the south. Departing home in the twilight hours of Monday mornings I would work 16 hour days – for the same wages I made 14 years earlier in high school – until driving back home on Friday nights, often arriving hours after everyone had gone to bed.

My wife, having somewhat recovered from her earlier infirmities, was left at home to fend for herself – pregnant with our 5th son and trying desperately to maintain control in the house with the other 4. Things were tight and things were chaotic. And as Christmas approached, there wasn’t a particularly overabundant amount of holiday cheer on the horizon.

Augmenting the Grinch-effect hovering like a black rain cloud over our home was the hard reality that our December 1st mortgage payment date came and went without our paying it. Though we had earned money sufficient to cover the payment, numerous lawn care clients were late on their payments to us, and – due to the fact that the finish carpentry work I was performing was backed by federal loans and miles of red tape – I wouldn’t see a penny from those efforts for many weeks to come.

Well, as these things go, around this same time we signed up outside the Bishop’s Office for Tithing Settlement. The Ward Clerk delivered to us our printout of the year’s numbers and we met with our Bishop.

Because our work is seasonal, it showed our first lump payment of tithing was made in May, followed up with monthly donations throughout the warm season – and the numbers all seemed to be accurate. (I say “seemed” because it is somewhat difficult to determine exact income when you receive no formal paycheck – Uncle Sam and God don’t use the same forms and tax-code). Anyhow, declaring a full tithe, we made our way back home to face the less-than-pleasant predicament of making ends meet.

Unfortunately, by mid December little progress had been made. All we had obtained in cash was about three-fourths of the house payment, and there didn’t seem to be any realistic expectation of obtaining more of the money I’d already earned. Things were looking a little hairy. There appeared to be no silver lining on that aforementioned rain cloud.

Then, as if rubbing salt into the wounds, I came to the scary realization that my first tithing payment I had written out back in May had actually been a make-up-payment we made after completing our 2009 taxes – wherein we realized we’d come up short for that year (as I said, sometimes determining precise income is a bit complicated).

So not only were things tight and behind, I had also unwittingly shortchanged the Lord for the year!

Counseling with my wife one Saturday when I’d come home, I declared that we needed to take that 75% of our mortgage payment and pay it ALL in tithing to square up with The Lord. Though it made no sense on an intellectual level, she agreed to let me write that check. And so, on Sunday morning, I handed the remainder of our limited cash resources (holding back just enough to buy a tank of gas) – with no more coming in the near future – to the Bishop in that small, grey envelope with black type: trusting that if I did right by the Lord, He’d do right by me.

Monday morning came (far too quickly and early, as was the unfortunate pattern), and I began making my journey towards Ephraim in the dark. Eventually arriving at my destination, I began work in earnest once again, setting baseboard, casing doors, laying window sills, and trimming around the flooring.

As lunch time came, I set my tools down and took a break. As I climbed into the truck, I received a phone call from my wife…

In a wavering voice, choked with tears and astonishment, she explained to me she’d just gone out and gotten the mail for the day. And amidst the bills, there was an envelope from our mortgage company. Assuming it was a warning about our nonpayment, she opened the letter with dread and trepidation.

The contents of that envelope, however, were not related to our belated payment. Instead, there sat a check from the mortgage company for the remaining balance on the insurance claim for the old barn.

The barn was not finished.

No inspector had been called.

And my mortgage company is the most-disliked company of its kind in the U.S. because of their UNcustomer-friendly practices.

And yet, there sat the check.

Was this coincidence? Mere clerical error?

Is it possible that someone at our tight-fisted, penny-pinching mortage company just thought it would be amusing to send thousands of dollars out for no apparent reason?

I suppose there are skeptics that might side with such a view.

But I know better.

Almost exactly 24 hours after handing my Bishop nearly every last penny I had in tithing, the Lord came to my rescue. He provided me with indisputable proof of His love, His concern, and His intimate awareness of my day-to-day life. He assured me that, though my life isn’t exactly a walk in the park, He’s carefully watching and guiding my efforts at the helm as I navigate my family’s little ship through the seas of life. And, while my challenges and trials are ever present, He has beneficently conveyed to me His capacity to make me equal to the trials of life.

Feeling exhausted and out of shape, trying hard to control my breathing (and frustration), I wonder how I got myself into this?

Perhaps I should explain.

Through years of benign neglect, the silent and insidious predator Atrophy crept into my world. Far enough away that I felt he posed no real threat, and so I tuned him out and failed to observe the way he quietly, nonchalantly sidled ever closer to my person… until one day I turned – to find him staring me down, point blank.

How did I let this happen? Oh, that’s right: life. I just got so caught up in business, and fathering, and home maintenance, and fishing – that I let my personal discipline and fitness take a backseat to convenience and more attention-demanding enterprises.

So these things go.

Fortunately, a dear friend – expert in all things fitness (and probably sick of hearing me whine) – invited me to make some changes. Wanting to take advantage of his skill set and desiring a better me, I agreed.

It started simply enough. He began to make some casual observations about my consumption habits. He noted how much crap I took in, and how I seemed to be lacking consistent, quality nutrition. Grumpy about having to exercise some actual self control and discipline, I nonetheless attempted to begin improving my intake…

Then came the workouts. Nothing big at first – just measuring up my fitness level (I’m not sure I was even on the scale one uses to measure such things). Testing my flexibility (somewhere between a 2×4 and a slab of granite). Judging my limitations.

Once my capacities were determined, however, the struggle began in earnest.

In the beginning, my hopeful optimism and reserved energies carried me through the discomforts and grueling tasks. But in a very short period of time, I found my enthusiasm waning, my go-juice evaporating, and a self-pitying sorrow creeping into my thoughts. I wasn’t far enough along to witness any return on investment, and I began to question whether the ends would ever justify the means.

Nonetheless, not wanting to be a quitter (and therefore a failure) I persevered.

Time passed and the program progressed, and (little by little) I began to notice a change. I was reaching a point of base stability that enabled me to complete my reps and endure the exercises.

Yet as soon as I began to feel competent, my friend felt that that moment was a terrific time to add weight to the bar, increase the reps, or introduce something new altogether. And so the pain, discomfort, sweat, and aches seemed to perpetually continue. A seeming cycle of progress with no apparent destination on the horizon.

Which brings me to the present: gulping for breath, the tendons in my neck straining like the strings of a guitar tuned 5 steps too high, blue vein wandering across my right temple like the satellite image of a pulsing river switchbacking across some barren, pale continent.

But as I feel my muscles giving out and the weights start to inch closer and closer to the floor (where I will most assuredly be in its way), I see my friend reach out towards the bar to prevent my collapse.

Through sweat-blurred eyes, I watch his arms extend and glimpse the scars in his down-turned palms (which he says no longer hurt – and yet they make me cringe every time I see them, remembering how I caused them) as those powerful hands close over this burden I haven’t strength sufficient to repel – and slowly, deliberately, almost torturously – He renders just enough assistance to enable me to slowly, weakly, feebly complete the effort.

Recognizing that I’m only 20% or so of the way through my working adulthood (pipedreams not factoring into that equation), I recognize that these feelings I have that tell me I’m too deeply entrenched to make a change are a complete farce.

Admittedly, a change of course in my career path is akin to a change in course for a battleship: time consuming and laborious.  But I also am cognizant of the fact that I don’t enjoy what I do – and that, even if I did – physical labor is just not sustainable in the long run.  Something about a law of personal/physical diminishing returns?

I have been unseriously (I’m not entirely certain that’s a real word) contemplating this possibility for a few years, but with the reality of an actual shrink in business from our already-marginal company this year, I have been driven to weigh these matters a bit more seriously.

So… what to do?  I want something that would excite me for work for the next 40 years.  I want something that enables me to apply my gifts, talents, and capacities in a meaningful and fulfilling way.  And as I have considered my options, I realize I am woefully ignorant of my options.  As it stands at the moment, I see only one direction that holds any interest at all.

Teaching.

Taking that realization to the next step, I ask myself, “Self: what would hold my interest for decades on end?” To which I eventually reply, “Self: the ONLY thing that would keep me engaged for that amount of time would be to teach the Gospel of Jesus Christ.”

So here I sit, for the moment, ready to look into what track I would need to take to enter the CES (Church Educational System) Program.  I don’t know whether I could achieve my goal, but it’s all that comes to mind at present.

My favorite of those summer-break habits, though, was fishing.  Taught to bait fish by my maternal grandfather, and how to lure fish by my paternal great-grandfather – I was always eager to wet my lines.  Though only a boy, I personally owned multiples rods, reels, and tackle boxes – some of which I bought, and even a couple of which I won in Boy Scout fishing contests.

And any opportunity I could take advantage of, I was pedaling my bike with 2 poles in one hand and my tackle box in the other to one of the local fishing holes – be it Heritage Lake, the pond at the Mid-American Nazarene College, or Cedar Lake – casting and catching for as long as daylight or my mother would allow.

You see, fishing is addictive.  It’s a bit of a Catch-22 when it comes to the commitment required to give yourself to the quest.  For if you are actively catching fish, you cannot resist chucking that lure back out, anticipating that next rod-bending, monofilament stressing strike.  And on the other extreme, on a day when the fish just aren’t biting, you can’t help but try every lure in your tackle box trying to break the jinx that keeps this aquatic heroine from satisfying your cravings.  For to quit is unconscionable!  One MUST catch and you’re always just one more cast away from the potential of hooking and landing the biggest largemouth you’ve ever had the fortune to battle.

But let’s fast forward to the present.  That was the mid 80′s and early 90′s.  And this is 2010.

I am sad to say that from my eventual departure from Kansas to my subsequent way stations in GA, WA, and UT – I never pursued fishing on a serious, committed level again.  That is, until 2010.

Having dug a hole at the back of my 6.11 acres last season, I was committed to creating a childhood experience for my little ones that would be similar in adventure (if not locale) to my own happy youthful recollections.  With a trashpump on loan from a friend, I filled the 1/3 acre pond and began dreaming of fishing in my own back yard.

Multiple fishing trips and translocations later, I have a pond with apprximately 140 panfish and 2 dozen largemouth bass.  And though the pond and the fish are nowhere near complete, I can’t begin to express the personal satisfaction of being able to walk out my back door, pick up my pole, and cast for green sunfish, perch, bluegill and bass.  And the “work” of stocking the pond with my boys is a labor I never grow weary from and, in fact, cannot get enough of!

I’m teaching my boys to fish.  I’m teaching them to have higher standards and more discerning taste in regards to what fish to spend time pursuing (“never waste your time on trout, son.  The only trout left in Utah are all 10″ stock rainbows that can’t fight, can’t survive a catch, and don’t taste all that great.”)  I’m teaching them to respect the beauty of God’s creations (PETA would puke if they read that).  And I’m giving them a fun outlet that we can all enjoy together – for hours on end.

So after a 5 year hiatus, Melanie is pregnant with our 5th child.  As near as we can tell, we’ll be due in April of 2011.

Whether it’s a boy or a girl, we don’t much care.  There are certainly positives either direction.   If we have another boy, life in our home will remain largely unchanged.  We’re already equipped for boys.  We have a grasp on how to raise boys.  We won’t have to worry about separate bedrooms, bathrooms, etc.  We’ll have the starting 5 on my Finley Family Basketball Dream Team (I’ll have to graduate to coaching, I suppose.)

A girl, on the other hand, would be fun.  She’d be spoiled and protected.  She’d bring a sense of closure and completeness to the family.  And Mel would finally have another female in the clan.

If I could pick, I’d choose a boy.  But if we end up with a daughter, I’m cool.

Either way, this will keep me parentally committed until I’m 50.  Possibly longer.  And that’s fine by me.  I’ve come to terms with the fact that I’m unlikely to become so successful in my current vocation that I would ever reach the point of affluence where I’d be eager to ship the kids off so Mel and I could become world travelers.  And besides, I don’t want to reach a point where we look back and long for more children and time with the family – but can do nothing to remedy such a regret because we’re past our prime.

So bring it!  Heavenly Father, please watch over and protect Melanie and this child.   Keep them healthy and safe.  Help us to ready a place in our home and our hearts for one more of your children to be born into the glory of the Truth and the saving knowledge of the Gospel of Jesus Christ.

But, then again, it might.  We’ll see.

For now, though, I feel that working on my writing and improving my ability to convey my thoughts and feelings into text will prove to be a useful form of self improvement.

If anyone reads this, I’ll be surprised.  I’m not actually planning to tell anyone I’m writing again.  This is merely for my own personal satisfaction.