Luxurious . . . What a word to pop into my mind as I entered work!
I glanced down at my seven year old slacks and six year old heels. The shirt was new—a recent Christmas gift. The cardigan had to be pushing a decade of service. All in good condition, but hardly luxurious. My car is a practical import, bought used with cash. In my hand was a commuter mug of coffee from home, and a hard-boiled egg was nestled in my purse.
But it remained an accurate thought. As a single, childless, educated, debt-free, healthy, employed thirty-something my time and resources allow me ridiculous luxury.
I go where I want, do what I want, read what I want, listen to what I want, buy what I want, eat what I want, say yes to what I want and say no to what I don’t want. I have the luxury of choice. I build the wide margins my introverted self needs into my daily rhythms. I read books and articles and blogs and chase down ideas. I take time to process through writing until clear thought emerges in text before me. I share meals with people who speak into me. I pause to watch the moon rise or the sunlight dance on the clouds. I hold Grandma’s hand and revel in her presence. I build Lego towers with toddler nieces.
I have entered into hard. I have engaged with poverty and lack. But I don’t live there. I live in a reality of abundance. My normal is not universal; I exist as an exception—an outlier.
What does this mean? What are the ramifications of my privilege? What responsibilities does it offer me? How can my comfort and plenty be a shared gift? How does my affluence influence my ability to follow Jesus?
This is the view I see out the office window: the delicate balance of freedom and liability riding on the wind of luxury ruffling the leaves of the everyday.