My nineteen-year-old son called me from his mission in Peru a couple of weeks ago. He was sick in bed and groaning occasionally with discomfort as he talked cheerfully about his work. I couldn’t reach him through the mail, couldn’t reasonably fly to see him. I wanted to teleport there and cook him soup, bring him to the doctor, hold him and pray over him. I wanted so badly to comfort him.
Instead of cleaning out my freezer, I could have been looking over the shredded remains of our home. I could have been facing the loss of everything we own. God protected us from that devastation, and although I rejoiced for a day or so, I immediately fell back into self-pity over a few hours of gross housework? How quickly I forget!