How much of what we strive for in life is man-made, and how much of it is actually from God?
Money. Attention. Status. Notoriety. The endless carousel of things that promise fulfillment but quietly demand our devotion. There’s something almost pagan about it—how easily these pursuits capture our effort, our imagination, even our sense of worth.
As a younger man, I remember walking through Nordstrom with a kind of reverence. I didn’t shop there—I passed through it on my way to somewhere else in the mall. My economic reality made that clear. But I watched the shoppers with admiration, even envy. I wondered what they did for a living, what secret I was missing that allowed them to belong there. I’d hear about people having personal shoppers—someone whose actual job was to spend your money for you. To date myself, that felt like Buck Rogers, Jetsons-level stuff. Next-level living.
The other day, I walked through Nordstrom again.
Same store. Same brand. Very different experience.
Everything felt… ordinary. The clothes. The displays. Even the people looked like anyone I might pass in the parking lot. For a fleeting second I thought, Nordstrom has really gone downhill. It felt no more special than a well-organized Target. Almost like rewatching a movie from the 80s you once thought was the coolest thing ever—now slightly comical in its seriousness.
Then it hit me.
Nordstrom didn’t change.
I did.
Here’s the honest part and I’m not flexing here: today, I can legitimately shop at Nordstrom without financial strain. I no longer pass through it because I can’t afford to be there. I pass through it because I don’t feel the need to spend in excess just to feel like I belong. The scarcity is gone—but so is the hunger.
Most of my wardrobe now comes from Amazon. Basketball shorts. T-shirts. Comfort over clout. Outside of a decent pair of tennis shoes, I honestly don’t care much anymore. Brands once mattered to me. They don’t now. Not because I’m above it all—but because it’s all so… boring.
And I don’t mean that as a judgment on Nordstrom or anyone who shops there. It just no longer holds power over me.
These days, my wants are simpler—yet somehow far more miraculous.
I want my kids to be healthy, safe, and centered in God.
I want my wife to feel loved, not weighed down by the selfish bullshit of my past.
I want my dog Teddy to live to be 100, even though his being 11 reminds me how fragile and precious our time really is—so I love him harder now.
Let me be honest: I still chase man-made things at times. I still feel social pressure. I still occasionally try to be something I’m not. But the difference today is this—my barometer for being off track is spiritual, not material. When I drift, I can feel it. And when I feel it, I adjust my wants back toward the grace of what God has already given me.
Jesus said it plainly:
“Give to Caesar what is Caesar’s, and to God what is God’s.”
(Matthew 22:21)
There’s nothing wrong with the things of this world—until they ask for what belongs to God.
And He warned us just as clearly:
“Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moths and vermin destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven… For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.”
(Matthew 6:19–21)
What’s not from God eventually loses its shine.
What is from God deepens with time.
And maybe that’s the quiet miracle of spiritual maturity—not that the world becomes uglier, but that it becomes less convincing
