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Growing up I never really yearned for the same things my friends did.
I was happy wearing thrift store clothes, reading used paperbacks and playing with my dog.
Occasionally, though, when I did find myself wishing for something new that I didn’t need, my mom or our pastor would flip open the Bible to 1 Timothy 6:6-8. It reads, “But godliness with contentment is great gain. For we brought nothing into the world, and we can take nothing out of it. But if we have food and clothing, we will be content with that.”
It’s a Scripture that’s stuck with me, even as my faith has evolved over the years. Relationships and experiences are more important than material things.
Guilt and fear, though, made its way into the contentment message.
It was just my mom and I when I was a kid, so money was tight.
When we went out to eat, I was told to order the cheapest thing on the menu. We frequented the clearance racks and layaway counters and tried to fix things ourselves when they broke.
Later, when I began earning my own money, I hoarded every cent as if financial ruin lurked around every corner. I wore the same clothes from high school and college, bought cheap, unhealthy food from the grocery store and left my apartment largely undecorated.
I felt guilty otherwise.
At my grandma’s urging, when I decided to buy my first house in 2013, I found one on a busy road, with ceilings that were too low for some of my taller friends, a questionable ladder to a loft, an extra small kitchen and an even smaller backyard. It was under budget, thus, perfect.
Excited, I told my godmother about it and showed her some photos.
She always spoke with razor-sharp clarity and said, “You don’t have to buy the cheapest thing anymore.”
My godmother’s wisdom reshaped my views on money and fulfillment.
What I thought was contentment was actually just tightfistedness in disguise.
I didn’t buy that house. Instead, I invested a bit more money and bought a nicer one. It was a hard check to write, but ultimately a better, wiser purchase.
Author Pearl S. Buck once said, “Many people lose the small joys in the hope for the big happiness.”
Rejoicing in the moment, with what we have and who we’re with, is contentment.
That doesn’t mean we don’t have dreams. Mine is to have a cabin in the woods, surrounded by acres of nature and wildlife.
I recently flew into Spokane and from the sky could see my dream houses scattered in the hills. Pangs of envy stirred in me.
But then I visualized what I do have, and joy washed away that momentary jealousy. I live in a loving home, skillfully adorned by my wife’s touch. We don’t live in the woods, but we have lots of big trees in our backyard, which house robins and nuthatches and woodpeckers. A fox comes by frequently, and luckily, is disinterested in our hens.
“When you realize there is nothing lacking, the whole world belongs to you,” said Chinese Philosopher Lao Tzu.
Those words struck me when I was gazing out the airplane window.
Today, 1 Timothy still rings in my ears.
My reluctance to spend is still there, but it isn’t due to discontent. Rather it’s a lingering effect of growing up in poverty.
Because contentment isn’t about eternal possession, but about living here and now with a heart full of appreciation.
Simmons is an award winning journalist specializing in religion reporting and media entrepreneurship. She serves as the executive director of faves.news and is a scholarly assistant professor at Washington State University’s Murrow College.
