From 2002
The coming of the sixth child has been the harshest for us to accept. We finished the addition to our house a year ago, and we consider the house absolutely perfect for our seven-person family. On a scale of one-to-ten, with all things considered (including the virtues of simplicity and humility), it's a ten. With this baby, it will no longer be a ten, though it will still be an eight or so. My eldest daughter Abbie–always accommodating and a downright charmer who loves people and especially babies–has told us that she'd love to share her room with a new baby or with her little sister Meg (who is 21-months-old and a terror in Abbie's room). In addition, we will also need to buy a bigger car because our van only seats seven, but we had (is there Providence at work here?) already set the wheels in motion to borrow extra money when we re-financed our home to take advantage of lower interest rates, so the money will be there for a big vehicle.
In any event, the baby will be welcomed and loved. We have a happy family and I firmly believe (actually, it's a fact) that a large family continually takes a person out of himself, with the result that my children will be more inclined to be outwardly centered and therefore better positioned for happiness.
All that being said, there is a sense that all these babies seem to be taking life out of my wife and me. The pressure to produce money goes up and at times I feel as though it could be affecting my heart, though I come from a very "heart healthy" family.
But as the pressure to produce at my law office goes up, so does the amount of available work (Providence again?). Six years ago, I had to go through old files, mining to find work for myself. I also had to take clients with uncertain abilities to pay and offer discounts in order to get enough work to fill my day and pay my mortgage. Now, I'm swamped with fine clients (most of them genuinely good people) who pay without complaint.
In such a situation, it would be easy for someone to get cocky or greedy. Both of those vipers have raised their heads in my soul. The temptation to over-bill ("What the heck. Even if they leave and hire a different attorney, I have enough work to keep me busy") must constantly be resisted. It would, after all, be a shame to provide for my family but lose my soul.
I find that it's highly helpful to view my flood of billable work as a farmer views his harvest. "The harvest is abundant," I tell myself. This has two effects:
1. It keeps me motivated to reap. If the work is there, I should bring it in before it withers and dies on the vine.
2. It rings of God, the giver of the good harvest. There's something about referring to a harvest that brings in images of God the Provider. I tried to read John Taylor's Arator a while back (but put it down after, oh, three pages); it may have given some insight into this. I'll give it some thought. I do know this, however: By thinking of the client work as a harvest and therefore invoking the image of God in the background (again, for whatever reasons), it helps keep me humble. If God is providing, it's not my talents or people skills that's bringing in the money. It's ultimately God and unless I want to become one of those tragic heroes in Greek dramas–whose hubris brought toil and trouble--I ought to avoid the pride of a successful practice and extra money. For the adverse effects of hubris can strike now or in the after life.
Later: December 7, 2002
I took a walk this morning and while slipping on the sidewalks I came up with an answer to why it helps to think of my client work as a harvest.
The farmer, no matter how hard he works, doesn't have certainty. Crushing market forces and weather dictate whether he has a good year. He must always work hard, but even hard work doesn't guarantee a good crop and a good return for his crop. In agriculture, the uncertainty is always manifest and it's that uncertainty that keeps the farmer humble.
I think it's important to say the uncertainty is "manifest" because uncertainty hovers around all of us: health, market forces, dastardly potentials stand around the corner of every person. In my job, I could lose my eyesight (my eyes are horrible); see my small town go down the economic drain, thus killing my practice as my clients are forced to migrate; suffer a horrendous loss through a malpractice claim or get my license suspended for some "technicality."
But such uncertainties aren't manifested as much as they are in farming, so if I'm not careful, I could start looking at my profitable practice with pride or greed. So I look at it as a harvest and it helps keep me in mental check: I neither put too much stock in my ability (knowing ability isn't always enough) nor in my money (knowing it could be taken away from me at any moment).
