January/February 2003


Enough Envy

by Susan Reedy


I have the choice to live a life of greedy gain or to live a life of blessed thanksgiving.

Another calendar hits the dumpster, and we still don't own a house. In the last few years most of our peers have bought a house. Some bought two. We live in an old apartment on a busy street. We have a washer and dryer as well as a dishwasher. But we don't own a house.

We have a shower and tub, an air conditioner in the living room and bedroom, a gigantic refrigerator and a stove that's off by about 100 degrees, but we don't own a house.

We have a minivan, frozen pizza in the freezer, friends with a swimming pool, plenty of clothes in the closet, health insurance and a mountain bike. But we don't own a house.

Over the last year that one little sentence has consumed more of my meditation time than all the other blessings I just listed. Until I got a kick in the anatomy. It happened when our small group began wrestling with the subject of simplicity. One of the girls brought her sociology book* and read a comparison between the average Midwestern American family and the average Ethiopian family to us. This is what I remember.

In rural Ethiopia, Getu, age 33, and Zenebu, age 28, struggle to keep their seven children from starving. They live in a 320-square-foot manure-plastered hut with no electricity, no gas and no running water. They have a radio, but the battery is dead. They survive on $130 a year farming teff, a cereal grain. Getu works 80 hours a week while Zenebu works even more at home. She fetches water, tends to the animals and makes fuel pellets from cow dung to use in the open fire over which she cooks the family's food. Their wish list: more animals, better seed and a second set of clothing.

Springfield, Illinois is home to the Thompsons: Robert, age 36, Jessica, age 34, Tricia, age 10 and Michael, age 7. They live in a 2,100-square-foot fully carpeted ranch-style house with central heat and air, a basement and a two-car garage. They own a refrigerator, a washer and dryer, dishwasher, vacuum cleaner, food processor, microwave and toaster. For entertainment they have three radios, two stereos, a CD player, two color TVs, a camcorder, a VCR, a Gameboy and Nintendo. They have four telephones (one of them is cellular), a computer and a printer, not to mention two blow dryers, an answering machine, a blender, an electric can opener, an electric toothbrush and a CD-stereo system in both their pick-up and their car.

Robert works 40 hours a week as a cable splicer for a local phone company. Jessica is a part-time school teacher. Combined they gross $44,568 a year plus benefits. Their wish list: a new SUV, a 20-gigabyte computer, a fax machine, a scanner, a Palm Pilot, a boat, a camping trailer, an ATV, and sometime in the future, a vacation cabin.

She closed her book, and I sat there thinking, I couldn't live without my washing machine or refrigerator! Much less without running water or electricity. Those are essential for survival. Or are they?

I began to feel embarrassed. I realized I had had enough of coveting that new house. I had had enough of wishing for more, more, more. I have love, two beautiful children, and running water. I have God, and salvation, and hardwood floors. Getu and Zenebu wished for a second set of clothing. I blushed as I thought of the outfits that hung in my closet untouched because the "style" had changed. There is nothing I need that I don't have.

Simplicity means different things for different people. For some, simplicity is out of choice, for others it's out of necessity. I have the choice to live a life of greedy gain or to live a life of blessed thanksgiving.

This year I'm going to stop thinking so much about that house I want to buy someday and think more about the things I take for granted. I've had enough envy. God has given me enough. 


*The excerpt is roughly paraphrased from a book called: Essentials of Sociology: A Down to Earth Approach, 4th Edition, 2002, by James M. Henslin.

-- Susan Reedy

 

Return to Plain Truth Ministries Home Page