Pa and I have never bought or sold stock on margin, that is, with other people’s money (OPM). You know from previous posts that we prairie dwellers shun debt. Seems like a pretty risky strategy for managing money. Pretty risky strategy for managing life.
With all the media focus on OPM (pronounced ‘opium’, and just as addictive), whether it’s government graft, Wall Street excesses or the clueless occupiers (almost all of whom are living off someone else’s worked-for funds), it’s no surprise Hollywood has recently released a movie titled ‘Margin Call.’ Truth be told, I’d never heard of it until writing this post. What a shocker: the plotline revolves around a financial crisis at an investment bank.
Though our investments are as solid as investments can be these days, much to my dismay, the rest of our life seems to be operating without a margin.
Flying without a net. Hit it and get it. Hardly any time for analysis, much less analysis paralysis.
There’s the mandatory carpooling and grocery shopping and food prep and medical visits and homework help and problem solving that goes with the territory of kids. There’s the nearly endless floor project that will almost certainly steal my sanity if it extends beyond Thanksgiving. There’s the cheerful wifey stuff I should but rarely ever do, irritating the ever patient-Pa. Nothing X-rated in that comment. When it’s time to collapse at night, I want to snuggle with the feline for a few moments. There’s not room for the feline AND Pa.
There’s my work with Northfield; so close to opening, and yet so far away. Most of our issues would be resolved with money. Brother or sister, can you spare a dime? Or 20 or 30,000?
And then there’s my writing. Right where you can’t see it, there’s a book being birthed, made up of madcap adventures on the prairie. Only time I seem to write is times like now (when I’m supposed to be cheering my kids at a sporting event; here comes the guilt) or sometime prior to 6am.
So on this day of too many things demanding more than I can give, I throw my hands up and pray Lord, be my margin. You’ve promised to be my rest. Thank you because I have energy for all of these crazy things, when even a year ago (as my kids put it) my legs didn’t work after 8:30pm.
Thank you for leading me and refreshing me every time I spend time in your word, even when my prayers are mostly missiles, too much like barked orders, rather than a languid conversation over a hot cup of tea. Maybe it’s better this way. Those missiles are usually launched from a spiritual posture of clinging to your feet.
Lord, be my margin.
