People always wonder, “What would you do if you won the lottery?” but something I don’t understand is why we consider winning the lottery as a million dollars in the first place. What if I already won? What if we already hit the jackpot? Well, I could write a song about it—a song where I can express my feelings, my sadness and my happiness, my good times and my bad times, all the things that make me who I am today and who I will be in the future. I would sing about the people I love deeply, the people who have had patience with me, the struggles I have overcome, and the feeling I get when I am talking to God. The song would display my life that I certainly didn’t gain through winning the lottery or through a specific accomplishment. Wealth is the life I gained from living, from being taught to be myself, and to appreciate what I have. To make the best out of my situation and to never let jealousy take over. At the end of my life, I would have so many worthwhile experiences that I would have a long song able to express the life money could never fill.

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My song would have piano, drums, and guitar in the background because of the people that contributed to it. My mother and my father, my aunt and my uncle, my teachers and my pastors, my friends and my ex-friends have been key parts in shaping my song. It would have a backup singer who echoes my voice to represent my people, the rocks in my life, the people I’ve leaned on, the people that pick me up when I have fallen. The drums would represent the people that have come during seasons and passed for seasons; they are loud, they have shaped me, but not like the backup singers. The pieces of my heart that have been taken but remediated by people, I would consider the guitar. They patch the holes in my heart and heal them through their smile, through their patience, their recognition that I am more than my bad parts, more than my off days, and more than my sins. Finally, the piano—it’s soothing and steady, similar to the backup singers. It’s calm, the sweet sound of the voices that have left but never damaged. Wealth is my cousin's grandma, very subtle yet very impactful. I didn’t spend as much time with her as I would have liked to, but she was still my grandma. She was cherished till the day she died. Her yellow fluffy scrambled eggs that she mixed a tablespoon of butter into, that seemed weird at the time, held a taste of love. Her buttered macaroni that no one will ever dare to replicate. Her fries that carried onions that no one spotted. The way she would tease her hair to make it full. The $10 she gave me every Christmas as I got older. I should’ve been more grateful at the time and seen the wealth in what she gave me. Recognizing what the $10 meant more than what it could buy. The $10 meant her caring, doing what she could and giving us the best. Now as I carry her wealth with me, the way to care and to love, I reciprocate that into my family. When I’m all grown, I'll know how to distribute my wealth, share my skills, share my love, and make the people I care for feel it.

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Some people complain because of the families they were born into. They dislike their financial situation, living conditions, education, family, and it shows through the way they live. Trauma exists and people blame God for it. Some people don’t believe in God. In my life, I never would consider myself wealthy without God. My worship, my song, and my life testimony make me wealthy and therefore able to keep going.

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It may be the testimony you give in court, the testimony you give about a person's character, or the testimony you give on a stage with an audience full of people where you end up crying and admitting how good God is because you are not miserable anymore and you're certainly not dead. It might be that I am too afraid to give mine, but somebody else did it so I’m not alone anymore. It may be how I’m still alive, a testimony of life, a testimony of wealth worth more than a penny.

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People love to compare the greatest things with a million dollars but never a penny. What if that penny meant more than its monetary value? What if that copper rusty penny that lost its shine decades ago meant more than a penny? What if it meant the time you asked your dad for change to throw into the fountain and he handed it over so that you could make a wish that the boy in your fourth-grade class would like you? Or putting the penny into Santa from the Salvation Army’s bucket, knowing that the little bit you're doing is helping. Or what if it's the lesson your parents are giving you as the offering plate comes around? What if I was giving back to God, thanking Him through a penny for the countless blessings He's given me? Perhaps if the concept of the penny showed love and not status. The penny taught me to give, no matter how little it was. It taught me that sometimes a penny is all you have and to give it to someone who needs it more.

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One day in May, at the end of freshman year, I chose one out of the 12 options—a week-long trip that doesn’t have any value to me yet. Guatemala was my third choice. I wasn't sure if I would get Costa Rica or Guatemala, but I knew I didn’t want New York. Who knew that $2,210 would make me so wealthy? From $2,210, people were blessed, and that includes me.

Every day, we went back to the same house, building them a small two-bedroom home. It was burning hot. The instructor, who gave up her time for this ministry called Catalyst Resources International, wore a long-sleeved sun shirt, some nice working pants, work boots, and a vibrant bucket hat. As we worked in the hot, glistening sun, time went by. We stayed until 12, then took a lunch break. Every day, the lunches we made in the morning would be handed out, and we would get peanut butter and jelly sandwiches as a reward for the day’s work. And every day, just as we ate our peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and Coca-Colas, we simply lived in the moment.

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The people who gave us these Coca-Colas were the people we were building for, people who didn’t have enough to support their families. People who made less than minimum wage at the hardest jobs in one of the poorest countries in the world. These were people who couldn’t repair their roofs, who lived in broken-down tin houses. They were beyond thankful that we were building them a two-bedroom house, giving them an enclosed space with a door. Sometimes, a door is all it takes to put a smile on someone's face. Even though they lived in clear poverty, they gave all they had to give. They provided it through Coca-Cola. These were people who had nothing yet gave us everything. People who are people, regardless of wealth.

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Wealth came from the tears I shed when we dedicated the house. When the father, who had been working day after day, finally came and saw the finished product, bawling. Wealth was him crying, saying that this tiny house would change his life. I never knew $2,210 would change mine. Learning that wealth is how you love with what you have changed me. Seeing how they gave and gave until they had nothing left to give changed me. Now, I look at wealth as an action of love, a way to say, "You're worth more than money."

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Wealth was the bond I made on the trip with a girl named Camryn. She became my buddy, and we built together and discussed events that happened on the trip. I never knew I would find a friendship like that on that trip, but I did.

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Wealth is not the income my dad earns; it is not how much money he has in his bank account. Retiring from his job, leaving it all behind to now make hundreds of dollars less than before, wealth is him sacrificing himself to put others before him. Sacrificing his needs to make sure his kids are happy and fed. Wealth is him stopping at the store when we're hungry. He’s a people pleaser, but he's made me wealthy through his actions. He has taught me I don’t need material goods to be happy. He has moved us to Costa Rica, where I’ve seen I don’t need the shopping center every weekend to feel happy. Wealth is the box I have been saved from, the life I now lead that money could never give me.

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Wealth was more time with my dad. When he had a heart scare, my whole family came together. My sister rushed down the highway to get to him, taking charge. Her being a strong, independent, loving sister demonstrated so much. It made me think about what I want to give to my family. I learned from her.

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Warning my dad not to eat sugar after being diagnosed with prediabetes. Wealth is looking out for each other, saying goodnight, giving him a kiss on the cheek, telling him, “Love you.” My dad used to sing to my little brother every night when he was a baby. He would sing “The Lion Sleeps Tonight.” As it echoed into my room, it would help me sleep too. The love my dad gave my brother made me wealthy.

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When we moved across the country, on our last night, we all cried. As we said goodbye, we started bawling, and my dad said sorry. He apologized for not being a good father, for taking us away, and for screwing up our lives. That was the single most vulnerable moment of my life. It was the saddest, most healing moment. As we went down the road, my brother called. It made me feel so secure, like it was the perfect way to say goodbye. Through our emotions, our journey, and our connection as a family, I was shown what it's like to be wealthy. It wasn’t because I was sad about getting rid of all my stuff or having to sell our house and move into an apartment. None of that mattered when I figured out that the size of a house would not make me wealthy. Instead, it was a loving family.

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Wealth is the fondest moment of my childhood—the Christmases I spent with my Aunt Jackie, my Uncle Nick, and my best friend Katie. The Thanksgivings where we would go around the table and say what we were thankful for, often for each other. These moments taught me about family and love. How we yearned to see the smiles on each other's faces when they opened their gifts. It didn’t matter how much it cost, how small or big the gift was, what noise the gift made when we shook it, the color of the wrapping paper, or if the edges were nicely folded or not. What mattered was that we were remembered and loved. It mattered that we always went to each other's houses for holidays, how we always made it important to spend them together. That family is my wealth.

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Having a built-in friend, 15 days apart, born at the same hospital, and raised together by the same mother every day until we were 5. My wealth comes in the form of a girl named Katie. My wealth comes from our talks, from our mutual love of TV, the way we love the beach, talking about summer, and obsessing over our new favorite Netflix show. My wealth comes from planning pool parties for our family, high school dances, Target trips at our sleepovers, and repeating the same stories about the boy we like. Her teaching me how to listen is wealth. Our bond is my wealth.

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Us helping out at church and me convincing her to come and do kids' camp with me were the best times of being a teenager. Going as a volunteer was never about the money. It wasn’t about the surprise gift; it was about helping kids have fun and come to know Jesus. Helping kids have a break from their lives and just be at camp with no worries. Creating fun memories for them made me so wealthy. It made me realize that I really love to take care of kids and be a leader.

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I didn’t know I would end up crying on the last night and giving them all tight squeezes after the service, telling them how much I loved them. I didn’t know some of them would open up to me, and I’d have to figure out what to say, body trembling and my eyes filled with tears. I didn’t know I would end up sobbing to the middle school pastor, Doug, and my best friend Hillary would also end up crying. Those moments, where I was comforted when I really needed it and where I got to comfort someone, made me wealthy.

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Having lunch with my two best friends from church, Hillary and Flecture, and them surprising me with presents was the sweetest moment. They gave me gifts and money, but I didn’t care. They wanted to set up the lunch so badly and give me the gifts so badly that it didn’t matter what was in them. It mattered that they cared, that they wanted to see me, and that they loved me. It mattered that they took time to think about what I would like, what they should write in the card, and that they thought enough to actually miss me. These three hours have stayed with me and made me realize how valuable a friendship I have in these two humans, worth more than a million dollars.

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Being wealthy isn’t keeping up with the Kardashians. Being wealthy isn’t how little or how much you make at a job. Being wealthy is crying out to God. Bonding over your trauma and your pain. It’s seeing that there are people who will be there for you and that you can create real relationships through conversation. Wealth comes in the form of tears, in the form of a smile, in the form of a laugh, in the form of a hug. Wealth isn’t the number on a tax form or a Louis Vuitton bag you can parade around. It isn’t the new phone. It’s a lesson I learned when I got it and the gratitude that I gained. It isn’t only good moments; it’s moments where I cried about friends and my mom wiped my tears.

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I want someone to be there for me during the good and bad times. It’s celebrating the turmoil I went through to get a good grade. It’s my mom praying over me for God to send me friends. It’s her buying a stranger groceries, her emptying out her suitcase in Tarrazú to give a woman a couple of nice dresses and the shoes off her feet. Being wealthy is being able to give what you have and not think twice about it.

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When I started walking up the steps to my first period, 5 minutes late, the hall was empty, but my cries echoed throughout the stairwell. My school counselor pulled me into her room, and I couldn’t stop bawling. I finally said I was okay and went to class. I walked in, and I immediately started crying again. My friends went straight over to me, took me out of the classroom, and tried to help. Having a friend that I could count on showed me that those bonds we created are important. They are substantial and necessary. Having someone to cry to, to cry with—because she started crying too—made me know our friendship was worth it and therefore I was wealthy in ways money could never make me.

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Having a friend could never be replaced by losing myself to get rich. Being wealthy could never be replaced with money. A million dollars could never compare to what I have. I won the lottery, and I don’t need the card to prove it.

~ Elizabeth Williams