It’s hard not to want things. It’s human nature. Sometimes we want things we need, or think we need, and sometimes we want things just because we want them. Most of us here in the United States are better off than so many others in poorer parts of the world. I try to remind myself of that, and to not place too much importance on anything I don’t have. But sometimes knowing you have all you need is not enough. You have to feel it.
When my daughter Julia was two and a half, and I was pregnant with our first son, we lived in a tiny condominium. There were technically two bedrooms in the 880 square foot dwelling, but the second bedroom was more like an exaggerated closet. There were three humans and three cats sharing the space, and I wanted a house. I needed a house. I deserved a house.
Never mind that our little condo was in a nice neighborhood, and within walking distance of the BART train that took my husband to his job. There was no yard. Sure, there was a park across the street, but it was a very busy street, and I had a toddler! There was only one bathroom. Our daughter was potty trained, and there was some competition for toilet time. The kitchen was too small for more than one person at a time, and the dining area not nearly large enough to seat all our family for holidays and birthdays. And storage space, well, let it suffice to say that we had to use the trunk of the car for things most people would put in a utility closet.
In the San Francisco Bay Area where we live, home prices are astronomical. Our little condominium was worth more than two hundred thousand dollars. We needed more than twice that to buy even a modest older home, and we just couldn’t afford the mortgage. My parents lived close by in the same home I grew up in. I would drive through my old neighborhood, and see new families in the houses that used to be occupied by my young friends. The schools near my childhood residence are the most sought after in the area, and the homes, though old, sell for premium prices. “How can these young families afford to live in a nice established neighborhood like this?” I would agonize.
Back in our own cramped quarters, we had a routine, my little girl and I. After bath time, I would snuggle up with her in her tiny toddler bed, and we said our prayers. “God Bless Mommy and Daddy, Papa and Grandma, Gammy, Niki, Lisa, Papa and Grandma Carolina, Cindi, Danny, and Emily.” Then I would ask Julia what she would like to thank Jesus for today. She loved this part. She would look around her room, and pick a stuffed animal, her shoes, a doll, whatever seemed special at the moment. Sometimes she would put her little arms around me, and say “Thank you for my Mommy and Daddy!”
But on one particular evening, nothing seemed to be special enough. I made some suggestions, but she shook her head. “No, not that.” She looked around her small cluttered room, and then smiled as inspiration struck her. She put her dimpled little hand on the wall next to her bed, and said proudly “Thank you for my wall!” She patted the wall soundly, “Amen!”
“Amen,” I repeated.
Snuggling close, I curled my legs up, and held my child as she drifted off to sleep. Leave it to a child, I thought, to put everything back into perspective. The wall separated her warm cozy bed from the dark night. It kept strangers out, and those she loved in. Everything she loved, everything she needed, was on her side of the wall. Nothing else mattered. Why didn’t I see that before? “Forgive me, Lord,” I thought. “And thank you for my wall.”
