We are living in a material world and I am a ...

I’m materialistic.

There. I said it.

I mean, I’m not obsessed with material goods to the point that I would rather buy a shirt than put food on my table. (Granted, I would happily eat crackers in a new top but Mr. Dub expects something heartier.) Me and the hubs don’t have any credit card debt. In fact, between the 300 of us, we don’t even have a credit card. And I don’t have much in my closet that cost more than $20, shoes included. So I’m frugal … but materialistic.

According to most informed/better people, you’re not supposed to be materialistic. And I get that. After all, you can’t take your clothes or your TiVo with you into the next life. Although I do hope they’ll be showing reruns of last night’s “The Office” in heaven. (Is that wrong? I’m totally cool if they edit out any questionable material. The funny stuff is usually the clean stuff anyway.) Your money and power and status in this world really mean little. It’s what you do with those things that matter. And I don’t mean accumulating the world’s best collection of ballet flats. (Something I may or may not aspire to do.)

You shouldn’t want things like an amazing wardrobe or really cool, brightly-colored kitchen appliances and a fabulous home. You shouldn’t want to buy the expensive fruit, like star fruit and Asian pears, and make little tarts out of them. You shouldn’t want to know (just once!) what Crème de la Mer feels like.

You should be happy with your discounted cans of cream of creamed things soups. You should be willing to wear your prairie skirt until it comes back into style. You should let your roots grow with no thought of partial weaves. (You probably shouldn’t even have roots, I suppose.)

But I have roots. And I have an exotic fruit obsession. And I want, oh how I want, that amazing wardrobe.

I like to justify it. I mean, fashion and shopping really are my hobbies of choice and sometimes I think that’s OK. Even fishing costs money and most people wouldn’t peg grown men in waders as the materialistic sort.

But I know it’s wrong. I know it’s not healthy. I see it in the world around me. I can identify the greed that has spawned all these McMansions (otherwise known as 6,000 square feet with a Tuscan exterior) where respectable, older homes once dwelled. I can see the envy that has compelled today’s college girls to have indie jeans, manicured nails and the latest SUV, whereas 10 years ago it was fine to walk to school in sweats on occasion. (And not ones adorned with Juicy across the butt, mind you.)

And while I see the mote, I can’t cast this darn beam out of my own eye.

I can’t seem to stop wanting more. I can’t seem to stop buying just one more shirt because it’s totally on sale and I LOVE it. I can’t seem to take the intense happiness I feel being a wife and a mother and a sister and member of the human race and let that be enough. I can’t seem to let my burning desire to serve others override my need to shop.

I want to be like the woman* whose husband spent years in medical school and training before billing a single patient. Who said when walking past a furniture store:

“Do you think we ever will be able to afford a lamp?”

I wish I only wanted a lamp.


(* Read Elder Russell M. Nelson's address in the March Ensign for more.)