“I wish we didn’t have to live next door to the church; sometimes I feel like we have no privacy.”
“I’m about to go nuts revising this book—every time I fix something, a new problem crops up.”
“I’m not jealous of people, whose grandkids live near them, but I sure would love to be closer to mine—they are ten hours away, and we only see them three times a year.”
I’ve said all of the above. More than once.
It occurred to me recently that all of them are high-class problems.
Compared to most of the people in the world, I have it easy.
I have a home (the above photo is not mine, but we live in a lovely one).
God gave me the talent to write books. And revise them.
I have three gorgeous, healthy grandkids and enough money to travel and see them.
So—what am I complaining about? Lord, forgive me.
Ever find yourself whining about your problems, then find someone worse off than you?
