Once upon a time I was wealthy. Not just American-style wealthy. Wealthy wealthy. Maybe not the top of the 1%, but still: the sort where a brand-new car awaits you on your 16th birthday, a gold watch congratulates your high school graduation, and a long, creamy strand of pearls commemorate your college. The sort of wealthy with weddings held in swanky ballrooms on Chicago’s Gold Coast and honeymoons taken in ritzy resorts.
Even during the lean-ish early-married years, we never worried about bills – another form of wealthy. We took lovely trips, saved for down payments. Though my career as a magazine editor and freelance writer never gave much hope for financial prosperity, the promise of wealth from my husband’s booming business kept us feeling blessed beyond measure.
Certainly, blessed is what our churches and our faith traditions led us to believe we were.
What I didn’t know then — but what I do know now — is how wrong I was.
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