Last year my wife and I thought it would be a great idea to buy a house while she was 7 months pregnant (during a pandemic). We’re smart like that.

We needed the space. Our 3 bed 2 bath wasn’t going to cut it with baby number five (+ a room for my mother in law who lives with us). So, we put an offer down on a bigger house, worked our butts off to sell our own, and within a span of about 2 months we sold the house, occupied our new one and the weirdest thing happened – we became financially stable.

Ever since I joined the workforce as a teacher fifteen years ago, I had always lived paycheck to paycheck, tax return to tax return. During that decade and a half, my wife and I were missionaries, then first-time home owners, then first, second, third, and fourth-time parents. We paid back 5 figure student loans while paying straight up for my five-figure Masters degree. We saved. We sacrificed. We scraped by.

We might not have been able to afford family vacations or extracurriculars for our kids, but our hearts were always full with the few blessings we were given – safety, food, and our relationship with God and one another were all we needed. We were a family, and our most honored member was Lady Poverty.

Then, when our bank account grew, something changed.

Financial burden can be transformed into a spiritual weight that rivals that of Atlas, and it’s that heavy lifting that can take its toll on your soul.

Granted, a huge burden was removed from my shoulders – I no longer had the constant stress of not being able to pay off my regular bills (let alone those unexpected ones),

However, the spiritual ramifications of being financially stable are a forest of vines that I am still sifting through:

• Should I save $ for my children’s college education?
• Should I spend $ on a vacation that we’ll never forget?
• Should I guard $ to be prepared for an unexpected emergency?
• Should I give $ to my parish or a missionary organization?

Every time I cut  one of these creepers down, 30 more hang in their wake.

When I was poor, I only had one concern: survive.

Now that I’m financially stable, I don’t know how to use my $ to serve best because everything feels like a risk. At the same time, inaction eats away at my scruples. It feels like I’m damned if I do and I’m damned if I don’t.

I’ve never loved the idea of $, I’ve only ever known that I needed more of it to survive. Now that it is a semi-abundant resource, I know not how to use it to honor God.

When (if) I ever get through these vines and to the celestial castle that they’re protecting, I’ll send word to let you know.

Note: I realize that this article may come off as overdramatic. I mean, I’m actually complaining about financially stable, which is arrogant, especially during a global pandemic. To which I respond with St. Paul’s words to Timothy: “For the love of money is the root of all evil: which while some coveted after, they have erred from the faith, and pierced themselves through with many sorrows” (1 Tim 6:10). I am highly aware that my dependency on my bank account is somehow related to my spiritual state. What i don’t know is to what degree I have become a slave to it.