Last night the airplane was full of "murmuring." We complained when boarding was delayed because the pilot was late (not his fault, but due to weather complications on his previous flight). On board we continued complaining because he found a mechanical problem requiring repair. Then we grumbled when 12 planes ahead of us awaited takeoff, further delaying us.
During the flight, I looked out the window at the glorious sunset we were chasing and pondered our murmuring. Why, instead, were we not grateful that the pilot successfully arrived in Chicago and that he discovered the mechanical defect so we could fly safely? Why did we bemoan our late arrival instead of acknowledging the privilege of flying rather than driving across country?
The rainbow of colors on the horizon grew more dazzling — and I realized with shame how full of complaints I've been. Why has it become my habit to mutter and gripe instead of recognizing blessings?
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