This morning as I sat in a dentist chair, I looked out upon some really big, fancy houses in one of Fort Wayne's upscale developments. I always wonder, "Who lives there? How do they make their money? Lawyer? Doctor? Business executive?"

I used to want a house like that. Now that we could actually afford one, I don't want one. I think that may be a mark of some measure of maturity. Who woulda thunk.

We could make it work, if we really tried (and wanted to). We could tighten belts. We could give away far less money (all God really cares about is 10%, right? So why give more?). Don't worry about staying out of debt. Right now, house and cars are our only debts. We've kept even with credit cards for over ten years now, paying off our balances every month, and it's a great feeling and a stress-releaver. But hey--we could loosen up there, like everybody else.

Houses are seductive. They entice you to get just a little bit more ("That room is so nice, and after all, this is where we spend most of our time. We'll be able to handle the extra cost," you rationalize).

But attending a low-income church has put so many things in perspective, and now Pam and I are often embarrassed by the "extravagance" of our simple ranch-style home with the basement and two-car garage. It's very ordinary, but to many people, it's like one of those homes on the golf course.

So I looked out at those homes from the dentist's chair, and I thanked God for my contentment. Contentment doesn't come easily when you live in Aboite, surrounded by wealth. Or when you live in America, period. But the only discontent I feel is that we're living too high, and I'm glad I feel that way.