When our kids were young, I posted a list of the rules. Nothing fancy, just a moratorium on hitting, and mean words. There were maybe half a dozen. In the interest of success I wanted to keep the bar achievable. I recall kids going back to double-check it, which made me smile. We all knew it by heart, certainly, but the reinforcement of reading those directives again seemed to matter. 

I have the Ten Commandments on a bracelet on my wrist, and on occasion I take it off to read it yet again. In case I have forgotten. Which I haven't, and yet something other than a jogged memory shows up to support me. The two at the end have been smashed into one. I guess for brevity, since it is after all confined to the circumference of a slender silver circle. 

The advice comes as a boundary to my thinking. "Don't covet" is more than just a pithy suggestion. It is like the yellow tape that keeps gawkers from stepping too close to the edge of a sinkhole. Wanting what someone else has is as precarious as any cliff. Reading that brief warning not only saves me from the peril of a downward plunge, it makes it possible to turn my attention to what I already have in abundance. 

Resisting the urge to covet someone else's sandwich when we already have a bowl of soup is entry level stuff. But real spiritual muscles appear when our hands are empty, and we still choose not to mentally grab. 

The part that moves me is when I see God out of the corner of my eye. It is not because His resources are limited, and having parsed out the glamorous houses, and spouses, and children to a few, is hoping the others won't notice that their portion is meager. 

No. 

God's sack of toys dwarfs that of Santa. The only reason to pause generosity is to give us a full measure of time to fully enjoy each gift.