I’ve been thinking about these two states of being a lot lately: wealth and poverty. I have been in and out of one or the other at various times in my life. Rich wins the popularity contest as it means the bills are paid and you don’t have to fret about where your next meal or rent payment is coming from.

But poor is a great teacher, too. Though clearly not as popular. It can teach you how resourceful and resilient you are. It can also teach you valuable lessons about what is important.

I learned that lesson as a teenager. In my very earliest days as a working girl, I sold Avon cosmetics. You know, the brand. Perfumes. Lipsticks. Usually packaged and sold in cute little bottles that have gone on to become collectors’ items worth ridiculous amounts of money.

It was something of a rite of passage for “working girls” in my crowd and the provincial part of the world I came from. In any case, it was not a disgraceful vocation. Still, I looked down on it and on myself when I was doing it. But had I not done it, I would not have learned a great lesson.

A thin woman with a strained face and a ponytail, a big smile, and several kids in tow came to see me about her husband’s Christmas present. She had many questions about the reliability of delivery and wanted to ensure her order would arrive by Christmas Day. In those days, we did not take payment upfront. It was strictly payment on delivery.

The lady carefully looked over the offerings in my sample case. Smelling each fragrance with great intensity and earnestness. She picked out an aftershave for her husband called Wild Country. It came in a bottle that looked like cowhide. It would cost her $8 when it was delivered. $8.56 with 7% sales tax. So she placed the order with me and went on her way, her gaggle of kids in tow.

It seemed to take forever for the Avon orders to come in that December. However, when they arrived, I managed to distribute and receive payment for most orders in fairly short order. But the pony-tailed lady kept putting me off with one excuse or another. “Too busy.” “One of the kids is sick.” “Car’s low on gas.”

My spidey senses were triggered. I was going to lose this sale and have to eat that $8.56. I thought ungenerous thoughts. “That’s what you get for selling to poor people.” “You should have known she was going to squelch on the deal.” And a string of other thoughts that would have landed me in a confessional if I were Catholic.

Then, to my surprise, I got a phone call early on Christmas Eve afternoon. The thin woman wanted to ensure I was home. She was coming for the Wild Country.

When she showed up at my door, she didn’t have a few of her kids with her. She had all eight of them in tow. Each one was shiny as a new penny, in crisp, clean clothes, shiny shoes, and some hair evidently recently washed. They were going to Christmas Eve service, she explained, after this stop.

She also had her husband with her. He was as tall as she was short. He had the faint air of Frankenstein about him – in a good way. Think Herman Munster on The Addams Family. He was mostly non-verbal. They all crowded in the foyer of my small apartment. Mastering all the stealth and subterfuge she could manage, she instructed hubby to keep the kids busy while she spirited me into another room to collect her goods.

On the side table by my bed (which passed for an office/retail store in those days), she carefully counted out eight crisp dollar bills, two quarters, a nickel, and a penny. She was beside herself with excitement. I discreetly packed the after-shave box in an Avon bag which she covertly concealed in the shopping bag she was carrying.

It then dawned on me that the bottle of Avon Wild Country aftershave was the sole Christmas present for her beloved husband from her and all of the kids. I felt about two inches tall.

Not only did I completely misread her character and intentions, I saw the love and joy she had for her man who had gifted her with all those kids. I thought back guiltily on the Christmases with gifts piled high for me and my sisters as well as for Mom and Dad. Opening presents could take more than an hour back in the day.

I learned a valuable lesson about the meaning of wealth and poverty that day. That family likely didn’t have an extra quarter to spare in the household. I thought about the daily struggle those parents must have gone through in managing the care and feeding those eight little ones. Their devotion to one another was palpable.

Instead of their obvious financial lack, I saw the wealth they did have that is rarer than money. Their cup runnethed over with love. I made up that word. Because it works and I like it.