Concentrate on counting your blessings, and you’ll have little time to count anything else.
~Woodrow Kroll

The winter wind bit through my coat but didn’t dampen my cheerfulness as I carried my four jars of home-canned tomatoes into the church basement. Excited to participate in feeding the less fortunate in our community at Christmas, I joined my Sunday school classmates as we boxed the goods for delivery.

That year, we went to Bobby’s house. He was one grade ahead of me in school, but I never knew he was poor. When we took the box inside the small house, I saw bedrooms had been created by hanging sheets over ropes. Bobby came home while we were there, blushed, and disappeared behind a divider.

My heart ached for him. Even as a seven-year-old, I understood embarrassment. After we returned to the church, my teacher pulled me aside. I thought she was going to discuss Bobby’s situation, but she didn’t.

“Linda, we collected a lot of food this year. You have a large family. Why don’t you take this extra box home with you?” She picked up the cardboard container, expecting me to accept the food.

“No. That’s for poor people.”

“All people need help at times,” she said.

“Well, we don’t.” I pushed open the door and walked the three blocks to my house.

Were we poor? I began to look at our family with what I considered impartial, grown-up eyes and concluded that we were definitely poor.

My mother never suffered fools, and she didn’t tolerate whining. After two days, she demanded to know why I’d been moping.

“We’re poor.”

“Who said that?” she demanded.

“Nobody said it. I figured it out.” I couldn’t look her in the eye. She’d been hiding this important truth from us.

“Why do you think we’re poor?”

I listed reasons, becoming bolder as I elaborated on my realizations. “The church wanted to give us food. We don’t have a car, only a pick-up, and we have to ride in the back when we go places. The women’s missionary group offered to buy us shoes for this school year. And most of the clothes in my closet are hand-me-downs from a girl in my class. I never thought about it, but what if people are laughing about me wearing her clothes?”

“Are you done?”

I wracked my brain for other examples but came up with none.

My mother poured a cup of coffee and sat at the kitchen table, a rarity as she worked constantly. Maybe she hadn’t known what people thought about us.

She stirred in a spoonful of sugar and sipped. “We are not poor. We are exceedingly rich.”

This statement got my attention, and I grabbed a chair. “We are?”

“Do you have a healthy body? Can you run and play without any problem?”

I nodded. I was the fastest girl in our class.

“Do you have a good mind? Are you a good reader? Is there a library where you can learn about anything that interests you?”

I nodded again. My mother often reminded us that she only had an eighth-grade education, but she expected every one of her seven children to earn college degrees. I now felt embarrassed about bringing up the subject.

“Do you ever go to bed hungry?” She put down her cup. “I know you don’t. We have a wonderful garden, and you eat well year-round. Canned food doesn’t taste as good as home-grown. I should buy some tins just to prove it.”

“But the rich people buy their food in cans,” I protested.

“Because they don’t have gardens. People in China don’t get enough to eat. You do. And people in Africa don’t have many clothes, hand-me-downs or not. Clothes aren’t important. Consider the lilies of the field.” She used that Bible reference when any of us complained about the clothes we wore.

“But people think we’re poor.”

“Well, they’re wrong. You get to go to school and play, while some children in this world have to work. You live in America. You’re free. You can go where you want to go, worship in any church you choose, and pursue any dream you can imagine. You are not poor! You’re rich! I expect you to remember that every day of your life.”

I never brought up the subject again.

Now that I’m older, I marvel at the riches we enjoyed, even on Christmases when there weren’t many presents under the tree.

I’ve often heard the saying, “I’ve been rich, and I’ve been poor. Rich is better.”

I know rich is better, for I’m an exceedingly wealthy woman.

— Linda Baten Johnson —