The World’s A Little Blurry: July 31

I always think the world’s a little blurry.

The greatest wealth is having people to come home to.

What did you once think wealth meant?

When I was young, wealth looked like money, beautiful things, success, a comfortable house, and having enough to afford whatever I wanted.

Growing older changed that definition.

When I was young, I thought wealth was having more.

It meant having new things, getting what I wanted, having a bigger house, being successful, and being able to afford things without worrying.

As children, we tend to measure abundance by what we can see.

We don’t yet understand that some of the richest things in life cannot be bought.

Now that I’m older and earning my own money, I’m beginning to understand that there are things money simply cannot provide.

Money can buy a house.

But it cannot make it feel like home.

Money can buy food.

But it cannot create the people gathered around the table.

Money can give you comfort.

But it cannot guarantee that someone will ask, “How was your day?”

The older I become, the more I recognize the difference between having somewhere to live and having somewhere—and someone—to return to.

Because home isn’t really about a place.

It’s about the people.

I want to come home after a long day of work, an exhausting shift, a difficult season, a disappointing day, or those moments when I simply need something familiar.

And home becomes less about the walls and more about the people who know you there.

The people who know your childhood stories.

The people who know when you’re tired.

The people who can tell something is wrong without you having to explain it.

The people who celebrate your little victories.

The people who have seen you at your best and your worst and somehow still make room for you.

Maybe  of the strangest things about growing up is understanding that “The ordinary things we don’t realize are precious.”

The things we once considered ordinary become the things we miss the most.

Ma asking if I’ve eaten.

Pa doing something ordinary around the house.

My sisters talking, laughing, or teasing one another.

Eating together.

Someone saving food for me.

Hearing familiar voices after being away.

None of these moments look extraordinary.

But perhaps that’s precisely what makes them precious.

A rich life can look remarkably ordinary from the outside.

Sometimes, abundance looks like a dinner table.

Sometimes, it sounds like laughter coming from another room.

Sometimes, it is simply knowing that someone noticed you weren’t home yet.

Perhaps part of appreciating home is realizing that homes change, too.

Children grow up.

People move away.

Parents grow older.

Siblings build lives of their own.

Families become busier.

One day, the house may become quieter.

And perhaps that is why the ordinary moments matter so much now.

We don’t know which dinner will someday become a memory.

Which conversation will stay with us for years.

Which place we visited will become one of our favorite stories to tell.

Which reflection will shape the vision for something we create someday.

Which small decision will change the trajectory of our lives.

We don’t know when an ordinary moment is quietly becoming something we’ll someday wish we could experience again.

There is no announcement that says… “Remember this. You’ll miss it someday.”

We simply live it.

And perhaps that is why we should learn to notice it while it is still happening.

So, what does it mean to be rich?

Maybe being rich isn’t simply having enough money to buy whatever you want.

Maybe it’s having people who notice when you’re gone.

Having someone waiting for you.

Having people who know the person behind your accomplishments.

Having people with whom you don’t have to perform.

Having somewhere you can be completely yourself.

And perhaps one of the greatest forms of wealth is having people who make you feel safe enough to be ordinary.

The world often asks us to be impressive.

At work, we’re professionals.

In society, we’re adults.

Online, we present carefully curated versions of ourselves.

But home is where you can simply be tired, messy, quiet, hungry, silly, imperfect—and still loved.

Perhaps that is one of the greatest gifts a person can have: people around whom you don’t have to prove that you’re worth loving.

And so, I am grateful for every person God has placed in my life.

Family.

Friends.

Colleagues.

Mentors.

And all the people who have crossed paths with me and left something behind.

Relationships are gifts from God.

Not perfect gifts.

Not always easy ones.

But gifts nonetheless.

The people who taught me different lessons in different stages of my life have all influenced the person I have become—and the person I am still becoming.

Some of the things I once prayed for were not possessions at all.

They were people who would stay.

People who would understand.

People who would remind me that I didn’t have to carry everything alone.

Maybe that’s why I now believe that the richest place in the world isn’t a perfect home or a perfect family. It’s a place where you find belonging.

A place where you are known.

A place where you are remembered.

A place where you are welcomed back.

A place where you can finally exhale.

I’ve always thought that the world’s a little blurry.

Maybe that’s why it took me years to understand that wealth isn’t always found in the things we accumulate.

Sometimes, it sounds like familiar voices from the next room.

Sometimes, it looks like a meal waiting on the table.

Sometimes, it is someone asking whether you’ve eaten.

Sometimes, it is laughter that you’ve heard a thousand times but would miss terribly if it disappeared.

Sometimes, it is simply knowing that after everything the world asks of us, there are people we can come home to.

You can have little and still have a life overflowing with love.

And you can have everything materially and still have nowhere that feels like home.

Maybe the richest life isn’t the one with the most things, but the one with the most people who make coming home feel like enough.

Maybe that’s what abundance really means.

Not having everything.

But realizing that what you already have is more than you once understood.

And I’m grateful.

Because ever since I started writing The World’s a Little Blurry on the first of July, I’ve been learning to look at life a little differently.

The world hasn’t necessarily become clearer.

But perhaps my eyes have.

I’ve learned to notice the ordinary.

To appreciate the people.

To recognize the blessings hidden inside familiar routines.

To understand that some of the greatest gifts in life don’t arrive wrapped in anything at all.

Sometimes, they are simply waiting for you at home.

And for now, that’s enough.