Splitting Heirs: Giving Your Money and Things to Your Children Without Ruining Their Lives - Softcover

Blue, Ron

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0802413765 ISBN 13: 9780802413765

Verlag: NORTHFIELD PR, 2008

Inhaltsangabe

The financial wealth you leave behind could be the best thing that ever happened to your loved ones—or the worst.

By approaching these important topics with clarity, conviction, and a little bit of humor, financial advisor Ron Blue explains why it is important to make these decisions now, instead of forcing your heirs to do it later. Even if your nest egg is small, it can have a huge impact on the next generation.

With practical tips, tools, charts, and worksheets, this book will foster a real appreciation for the precious resources that God has entrusted to your care.

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RON BLUE is a successful entrepreneur in the financial services industry and an admired leader and speaker on the topic of Biblical financial management. In 1970, he founded an Indianapolis-based CPA firm which has grown to be one of the 50 largest CPA firms in the United States. In 1979, he founded Ronald Blue & Co., a fee-only financial planning firm, convinced that Christians would better handle their personal finances if they were counseled objectively with the highest technical expertise and from a Biblical perspective. Ron is the author of twelve books on personal finance from a Biblical perspective, including the best-seller, Master Your Money, and his most recent book, Wealth to Last, co-authored with Larry Burkett. He is currently the President of Kingdom Advisors and lives in Atlanta, Georgia.

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Splitting Heirs

Giving Your Money and Things to Your Children Without Ruining Their LivesBy Ron Blue

Northfield Publishers

Copyright © 2008 Ron Blue
All right reserved.
ISBN: 9780802413765

Chapter One

CONFESSIONS OF PROCRASTINATION

* * *

I need to make a confession. Well, maybe two.

Over the years, I had returned to my hometown of Lafayette,Indiana, for reunions and holiday visits to my parents. Like a NormanRockwell print come to life, Lafayette has a town square atthe heart of its business district, a railroad at the heart of its midsection,and a local high school basketball team at the heart ofits entertainment.

I had bored my children on previous visits talking about myold stomping grounds. They heard the usual reflective stories,with very little exaggeration, about how I dominated the sportsscene at school, how I walked miles to school uphill both ways,and how I often shoveled three feet of snow off the widows' sidewalkson the way for no pay.

But in 1991, I returned to Lafayette for the funeral of mymother. Heart disease ended her life journey from an immigrant'sdaughter and a faithful spouse of fifty years to a devoted motherof three boys. My mind was flooded with many fond memoriesof my mom and my childhood. The first important woman inmy life was gone.

My two younger brothers and I had never experienced death inour immediate family. Dad was facing the loss of the woman withwhom he'd spent a lifetime. He'd gone through so much with her-theups and downs of life in small town America. The sense of lossweighed mightily. We all knew that a big part of our lives was gone.

But we were men. We could handle this. It's life, part of God'splan. She's in a better place. It would be okay. Time would healthe hurt. You know, I realized clichis are clichis for good reason-though they ring true, they ring hollow. They had no healingpower for my heartache or sadness, no relief for my loss.

We four men stood at the funeral, shoulder to shoulder. Emotionssuppressed and faces stoic. Sweaty hands folded and claspedbehind us. We hardly spoke. It was a beautiful funeral service withtender words sincerely expressed by loved ones and well-wishers.Now it was over.

As we were driving home my wife, Judy, said, "I was wonderinghow you men would handle this. It fascinated me to seehow you four men were so nonemotional and unsentimental."It was an understandable observation. Dad, my brothers Davidand Wendel, and I were not expressive types. Having emotionsis one thing, but expressing them is another. What's a grown, professionalman supposed to do at his mother's funeral? Cry? Be atower of strength? Look solemn and controlled? This was a newexperience for all of us.

I know I was sad though. I also know that I never said all thethings I would have liked to say while Mom was alive. The dayMom died at the hospital, I happened to be alone in their housebefore the rest of the family returned. As I was quietly walkingthrough the house, I saw a yellow note on the kitchen table in herhandwriting: "Call Ron." A phone call that I wish had happenedbut didn't.

I wanted to do better with Dad, but that meant man-to-mantalk. Son to father. That was not going to be easy. Dad had graduatedfrom high school and worked in a factory; he was a self-made,hard-working man. Well respected in the community, heeventually became mayor of Lafayette. He was a part of that generationthat lived with a lot of privacy. I never remember him saying,"I love you." In my forties I finally told him I loved him, andthen he told me he loved me. It was a bit like getting an eight-year-old boy to say "sorry" to his little sister-the words didn't comeout easily. That was the first time we hugged each other as adults.

Time passed without my bringing up such difficult conversations.Life was moving along like swift rapids. My business in Atlantawas demanding, challenging, and rewarding during theboom years of the 1990s. Our children were growing up, finishingcollege, and getting married. We were becoming grandparents.

As for my dad? Like any widower or widow, he moped alittle and coped a lot. He remarried a couple of years after Mom'sdeath. His new wife, Edna, was a wonderful companion for him.Things seemed back to normal. And "normal" included we mennot talking to each other about matters much beyond news,sports, business, and weather.

Several years later, Dad began to have lung trouble. In 2001I got "the call" to go back to Lafayette because Dad's lung diseasehad advanced dramatically. He was in the hospital again.We knew he had an incurable, fatal illness, but none of us knewwhen it would take him. All of a sudden it seemed the momentwas upon us. The end-of-game buzzer was about to sound. I realizedany discussion of his final plans must start with me.

Driving to the hospital on a drab, gray day, I turned on familiarstreets that hadn't changed much in nearly fifty years. Once thiswas my world, but since leaving home I'd lived in New York,San Francisco, Dallas, and Atlanta. I was privileged to travel toTokyo, London, Nairobi, Johannesburg, and Hong Kong. Lafayetteseemed rather small and ordinary. I was struck by the reality thatthe world I'd grown up in and the world I now lived in might aswell be on different continents. And the same was true for Dadand me. We seemed to be in different worlds.

Dad was in the same community hospital in which I was born.It's curious how birth and death stand side by side. Odd neighborsindeed. I'd been at this unspectacular brick box of a buildingover the years to visit various friends and relatives, but todaywas different. It was beckoning me to a final meeting with my dad.What would he say? An even more unnerving thought: Whatwould I say?

I knew I'd not done well with my desire to communicate betterwith him following Mom's death. My rationalization? If anyonehad permission to communicate poorly with his family, asan accountant I did! Being a "numbers guy," I wasn't supposedto be the world's best communicator.

So, here's my confession. My father was eighty-three years oldand within forty-eight hours of death. I was headed to his bedsidewithout ever having had a single conversation with him abouthow to handle things after his death.

I had worked on estate plans for hundreds of clients, writtenbooks about family financial matters, spoken to many conferencesand charitable organizations about estate planning. But I knewvery little of Dad's finances, was unsure what was in his will, andhad no idea how he wanted to dispose of assets. During all thosevisits and phone calls over the years, we'd never talked about whatto do upon his death. I knew the biblical principles of finance andwealth transfer yet hadn't talked to Dad about his final affairs.

I pulled up at the hospital and slowly walked inside. It smelledof cleaning solution and didn't look like any interior decoratorhad ever worked it over. Some nurses bustled by, while othersbent over desks cluttered with papers and computers. I found myway along the corridors to his room.

Surprisingly, Dad didn't look like a man who was dying. Hismind was in great shape, and he was talkative. But his breathingwas labored like a man with a heavy weight on his chest. Dadknew he would never return home, and I did too. This wouldprobably be our last time to talk.

I was relieved when Dad brought up the matter of his lastwishes. Most of his desires were pretty straightforward-dividehis stuff equally among the three sons. But there was one pointwhere Dad got...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: NORTHFIELD PR
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2008
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 0802413765
• ISBN 13: 9780802413765
• Einband: Taschenbuch
• Anzahl der Seiten: 209
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: Nicht verfügbar