My Kind of Rich

Everyone wants to be rich.It’s what the world chases—money, status, things.But there’s a kind of rich that money could never buy.And that’s the kind I’m living for.

My kind of rich is the sound of little feet running across the floor.It’s the tight hugs around my waist that come out of nowhere, the kind that stop time for just a moment.It’s singing and dancing in the kitchen with tired eyes and an even more tired heart, because joy doesn’t wait until you're rested.It’s late-night talks with my husband when the house is finally quiet, and we remember we’re still each other’s person.It’s the laughter that fills every corner of our home—even if it’s followed by screaming or spilled juice.

It’s drawings on the walls that once made me mad, but now I can’t bear to clean off.It’s those tiny voices saying, “I love you, Mommy,” as they whisper goodnight for the sixth time—after ignoring me the first five.It’s Sunday mornings when we all go to church, even if we’re running late and someone forgot their shoes.It’s blasting music in the car while everyone sings off-key and off-beat, but perfectly in sync with love.

It’s the breakdown days—when I’m holding back tears at my limit—and a little hand wipes my face and says, “It’s okay, Mommy. Don’t cry.”It’s cuddling on the couch to watch a movie I’ve seen ten times—or never wanted to see in the first place—because they asked me to.It’s those unplanned Target runs I can’t afford, but do anyway, because I know I won’t have many more summers with them before they’re off doing their own thing.

It’s those last-minute school projects they swore they told me about (they didn’t).It’s the WWE sibling smackdowns echoing through the hallway.It’s the silly food fights that my husband starts just to hear the kids laugh.It’s looking out the window and seeing him chasing them in the yard, barefoot, like one of the kids.

It’s the chaos. The crumbs. The clutter. The laundry mountain.The loud, the quiet, the sacred, the messy—all of it.

Sometimes I cry because I’m overwhelmed.Sometimes I cry because I’m grateful.But every time I look around, I realize this is wealth. This is abundance.Dirty floors mean busy feet. Dirty dishes mean bellies were fed.Noise means life is happening here.

God has blessed me in more ways than I can count.No, I don’t have much money.Most days I’m scraping by.But my kids won’t remember how broke we were.

They’ll remember that the Lord always provided.That love was loud. That joy lived in our walls.That home was a safe place—even when it was chaotic.They’ll remember that their childhood was rich in all the ways that matter.

And that, my friend,is my kind of rich.