Epiphany about Covetousness

Back in the late 1970s, when I was in my early forties, I spent Christmas day with friends. Both my parents had died, so I no longer traveled the 450 miles from Minnesota to Missouri to celebrate with Mom and Dad.

Let’s call these friends Darlene and Michael. They welcomed me to all celebrations and to supper anytime I chose to stop by. We three spent a lot of evenings together, talking about politics, the Catholic Church, books, television, nutritious eating, a wide gamut of topics that interested us. Their friendship was an important part of my life.

Today’s epiphany happened one Christmas morning as we opened gifts. They always gave me lovely gifts: a sweater, a stick-resistant frying pan, a twenty-piece set of daily dishes, a salad bowl fashioned by the local potter, a book of poetry. Always thoughtful gifts. I treasured both them and the gifts.

On that Christmas morning, Darlene, Michael, and I each sat with a stack of presents. At one point, Darlene picked up a gift, tore away the paper, opened a jewelry box, and took out a pair of pearl earrings. Atop each pearl was a small diamond.

She gasped. Michael grinned, clearly delighted with her response. “Open that next box and the next!” he said. In one she found a matching pearl and diamond necklace; in the other, a ring. Speechless, Darlene immediately donned the three-piece set. She glowed with happiness.

I watched all this, initially happy for Darlene. Then a strange feeling griped my innards: I felt covetous. I wanted someone—anyone—to spend that much money on me. If they did, then I’d know I was deeply loved.

Once again, the insecurity I’d felt since childhood shrouded me. If I weren’t worthless someone would shower me with expensive gifts. Now remember that I was sitting with a multitude of gifts stacked on the floor—gifts from Darlene and Michael, family members, and other friends. I had gifts; I wanted expensive ones. At that moment, for me, money meant love.

The truth was—and I recognized it even then—that I didn’t even like pearls and diamonds. Never had. I preferred silver earrings and necklaces.

Yet a mixture of feelings inundated me: I felt bereft. Envious. Worthless. Greedy. Ashamed.

Not wanting them to see what my face had to be revealing, I looked past Darlene and into the dining room where a crèche sat on the buffet. I looked at that scene and epiphany happened. Realization captured me.

Here were these three—Mary, Joseph, and the baby Yeshua. Poor. In a stable. Friendly with the poorest in the land. Not caring about pearls or diamonds or money spent. Content within themselves. Content with what life presented them. Content with love, freely given.

The vow of poverty I’d taken in the convent was meant to foster in me a poverty of spirit that would rejoice in the happiness, success, and abundance of another. Of all others. True poverty of spirit would recognize that in our Oneness each of us could rejoice in the happiness of every single one of us.

And so, shaking myself free of that moment spent in the present and in Presence, I got up from the couch, hugged Darlene, and told her how lovely she looked. I turned toward where Michael sat, bent down, hugged him, and told him what a fine gift-giver he was.

When I got home that night, I knelt before my own crèche and thanked the Holy Oneness of All Creation—that is, all those who have ever blessed my life in the past centuries and the near decades and the day itself—for my life and its wonder. I thanked Oneness for the Epiphany of the day.

Peace.