Of Potatoes and Priorities

Supplies: Two large glass jars and two trays.
Ingredients: We used medium potatoes and dry beans.

Method: There are several ways of going about this. Here is what worked for us.
First Jar: We filled the jar with potatoes, shaking it around a bit to make more space. Then we added dry beans, rotating the jar as necessary to get beans under and around, in every little nook and cranny, until the jar was full.

Second Jar: First, we used exactly the same volume of potatoes and beans as was in the first jar. But this time, we put the dry beans in first. Then we added the potatoes. Problem was, there wasn’t nearly enough room. Maybe half the potatoes fit in the jar.

The glass jar represents time – a day, a week, even a lifetime.
Each potato represents a priority. Priorities include work, studies, sleep, a deadline, an event, eating, exercise and such. For Christians, priorities include Sunday worship, prayer and Bible study. Priorities go in first.

The beans represent various tasks. These are things that need to be done, but can be fit in around the priorities. Grocery shopping, paying bills, car maintenance, laundry and running errands are examples. Of course, if a particular task isn’t taken care of, it can mushroom into a priority. For instance, not keeping gas in the vehicle will make getting fuel a major priority.

When we put tasks ahead of priorities, there won’t be room for the priorities. First things first.

All the President's Men. . . are Matroshkas

Likenesses of Russian presidents and Soviet leaders painted on ma-TROSH-ka dolls, from today's Vladimir Putin to Vladimir Lenin.

The Matroshkas and the Tax Man

I shook my head in disbelief at the matroshkas I was cramming into my suitcase. Wooden nesting dolls or matroshkas (ma-TROSH-kas), are the most popular souvenir of Russia and over the years, I’ve hauled back quite a few. Most matroshkas are painted with predictably feminine designs such as a peasant-style dress, a headscarf, and a bouquet of flowers. More elaborate matroshkas might feature characters from Russian folk tales and nowadays you can find them of the British Royal Family or the University of Texas football team. Imagine.

Well, the matroshkas I was packing featured Russian presidents and Soviet leaders. The largest doll was of President Vladimir Putin and the smallest, Vladimir Lenin. In between were Boris Yeltsin – whose funeral you may have caught on the news recently – Michael Gorbochev, Leonid Breshnev, Nikita Khruschev and Joseph Stalin. What a collection of characters.

I must admit that matroshkas of the Russian presidents aren’t be something I would seek out for myself and so I chuckled to myself, These have to be the most gimmicky matroshkas ever.

On the other hand, what souvenir won’t a missionary buy at a hint from her tax accountant?

A round of applause please for E.B.Dotson, III, CPA. This man is a godsend to many of us missionaries: He does our taxes. For several years now, E.B. has donated his tax expertise as his own personal ministry, a torch he accepted from J. C. McCurdy, CPA, who, before he retired, handled taxes for as many as 150 missionary families. Now that’s a labor of love.

Back when I was preparing for the mission field, I had heard about Mr. McCurdy’s tax service but resisted because for one thing, I was uncomfortable asking for help. Besides that, another CPA was doing my taxes just fine. But little did I understand then about the value of having a tax pro who is into tax law for U.S. citizens living overseas.

Tax law for expatriates including foreign missionaries is quite complex. One common misunderstanding is that those who live outside the U.S. are exempt from filing a return. Another misunderstanding concerns the number of days the expat wage earner can be in the U.S. in a calendar year. That’s where it makes quite a difference to have a CPA who is into the nitty-gritty details.

Before I availed myself of Mr.McCurdy’s tax expertise, my visits to the States were nothing short of frenetic. I was careful to stay no longer than 35 days, often leaving on day 34 just to be safe. That meant five weeks of zipping across country from Washington to North Carolina to Ohio to Texas to work in family visits, medical checkups and reporting to sponsoring congregations. And after all of the rushing around, I would return to Russia worn out. More like semi-comatose.

Then I caught on to missionary friends elsewhere whose visits home sounded more reasonable. I asked what they knew about expat taxes that I didn’t know. Aha. They knew Mr. McCurdy. But it wasn’t until July of 2003 that I was compelled to contact him, the summer I needed to be in Ohio eight weeks to help my dad.

I called Mr. McCurdy at his west Texas home and in his soft drawl, he said,
Well, I’ve retired now that I’m in my eighties and so I’ve passed my work on to E.B. Dotson. But tell you what -- Let me get your taxes going real good and then I’ll pass them on to E.B. and let him take it from there.

I readily agreed.

Nowadays, my trips to the US are downright pleasant. I usually stay six to eight weeks but fall of 2005, I took a 12-week furlough which included my 30th college reunion. It happens that both Mr. McCurdy and E.B. Dotson live in that college town and I wanted to thank them in person. I knew I would be crossing paths with Mr. McCurdy at church but to meet E.B., I would need to stop by his office.

In the course of our conversation, E.B. let slip an interest in matroshkas of the Russian presidents. And that took the guesswork out of finding him the perfect souvenir.

A curtsey to the Russian leaders who have nudged Russia toward democracy. And a salute to E.B. and those like him, who offer their skills pro bono, working quietly and carefully all to the glory of God. Their eternal reward will be so much greater than metroshkas.

To Go Home Again

Think back to the day you left home. You might have left with your parents’ blessing. Or you might have left a strained relationship. Last month, I spent two weeks in Rittman, the Ohio town of my childhood and I was reminded of the day that I first left home.



I was up to here with Mom. We had been going around in circles. She was being unreasonable and I realized that it was time to go. I knew who I could go to for help, however, and that was Grandma. My goal: Get to her farm, five miles south of town. Challenge: I didn’t have access to a vehicle because of being only five years old. Not to worry though. A woman with a mission is not easily deterred.

It started that morning when Mom wanted to perm my hair. Well, okaaay. After what seemed like hours of her jerking my hair and squirting that smelly solution at me and then wiping drips from my eyes, it was time to see the results.

But when I looked in the mirror, I was not happy. That curly, cutesy look would never do, not for a confirmed tom boy who didn’t do prissy, much to Mom’s dismay. No, I needed to get rid those curls and fast. Luckily, she had dropped a clue earlier.

Now be sure not to get your hair wet or else your perm won’t last.

It’s likely that I tried to wash my hair in the bathroom sink and got caught in the act. So then out to the backyard swing set for a moping session which evolved into strategic planning. Grandma would let me wash my hair. I could count on her. But how could I get to her place?

These shoes are made for walking and that’s just what they’ll do. . . I must have been humming that Nancy Sinatra song years before it hit the charts. I set out along Lincoln Drive, turned left onto Sunset and then right onto Main. Walking along sidewalks through familiar neighborhoods was easy enough but navigating through downtown was trickier. I passed the fire station, the library and then somehow got off the sidewalk and began walking on the street, behind the cars angle-parked in front of the department store. Into the next block, I hurried past two steepled churches and down the incline that led past the tavern, the car showroom and finally to the railroad on the edge of town.



There I stopped in my tracks. A train was idling in the near distance and I was mulling over whether to cross when an all-too-familiar vehicle pulled up, a blue and white, two-toned Chevy or something. Sure enough, it was Mom. I’d been found out. She reached across the front seat to crank down the window.

Young lady! WHERE do you think YOU’RE going?

She burst into staccato mode, You. . . had better. . . get your self. . . in. . . this. . . car. . . right. . . this. . . minute. . .and I don’t mean MAYBE!
That’s the closest Mom ever came to swearing.

That evening, after a series of dinner table lectures about safety, obedience and the value of home beauty treatments, I went ahead with my bedtime routine. It would end with Mom sitting on the edge of my bed and chatting in the soft glow of the bedside lamp. That evening, however, our conversation had a twist.

So Eileen, have you learned a lesson today? Don’t you think you should apologize for all the commotion you caused around here?

And so I did apologize with words my mother would remind me of for years to follow.

Mom, I’m so sorry if I hurt your feelings.

* * * * *

How typical of a child’s logic to make a decision without considering the consequences. I hadn’t thought about getting hungry, it getting dark or the perils of walking near big trucks, and cars speeding outside the city limits.

Fortunately, a friend of the family spotted me that afternoon. I had crossed the street in front of him and we smiled and waved. The situation struck him as being odd and later he telephoned my mother. Thank goodness for his alertness and concern.

In the years following my little adventure, Grandma moved closer to town and married her childhood sweetheart, both 70. There have been other changes too. I eventually got wheels of my own, I’ve voluntarily had my hair permed at least 85 times and I left home dozens of times with Mom’s blessing if not her encouragement. But what would I give now for time with my dear mother – a car ride, a telephone call, a quiet chat before bedtime. It would be so nice, even for a few moments, to be able to go home again.

Family in Fifty-seven

From right, Dad and Mom, Dan and me.